


Playing Nice

by shimadagans



Series: Playing Nice [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Based on a Twitfic, Bathing/Washing, Betraying Someone's Trust Before They Can Betray Yours, Body Horror, Character Study, Dark Age (Destiny), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exo Anatomy (Destiny), Feelings Realization, Felspring Suffers Every Day, Felwinter is Oblivious, Flirting Through Violence, Game: Destiny 2: Season of the Worthy, Gift Giving, Healing, Incredibly Self-Indulgent, Introspection, Just Kidding It Gets Resolved, M/M, Miscommunication, Mostly Canon Compliant, Paranoia, References to Shakespeare, Regret, SIVA (Destiny) - Freeform, Self-Inflicted Unresolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Sparring, Sparring as foreplay, Swordfighting, The Dawning (Destiny), The Helmet Does Come Off, The Iron Lords (Destiny), Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, the inherent homoeroticism of swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24954886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans
Summary: [As he comes closer, Felwinter can see the steam curling from the surface, and the remnants of suds surrounding the Warlord. Some leftover soap clings to the prominent curve of his throat, trailing down into the dip in the musculature of his chest. Felwinter drifts to the edge of the bath, settling at the far end, and Shaxx finally turns his head to look at him.“So,” he starts, testing the proverbial waters, “The helmet does come off.”]A look into the mind and afterlife of one particular Exo.Based on a Twitfic byGileonnen. This got away from me a bit, turned into a multi-parter, etc.
Relationships: Felwinter/Shaxx (Destiny), Felwinter/Timur (Destiny)
Series: Playing Nice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996237
Comments: 161
Kudos: 196





	1. Wisp

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Gileonnen for 1) [writing this juicy lil bit of inspiration](https://twitter.com/gileonnen_again/status/1274357147795705858) and 2) letting me write a lil something based on it. This will HOPEFULLY only be 2 parts.  
> Since as far as we know we've got no confirmation on who exactly Shaxx is besides 'the Crucible', I'm going with human because as much as I love robots in love, and as much as I love space elves, I don't think either quite make sense for him. Human but secretive it is.

There’s a chill that permeates the thick, recently repaired walls of Shaxx’s domain. It’s not the same cold as the bitter, whipping winds atop the mountains Felwinter called his own, but it sears into his frame, regardless, biting into his joints even when he’s bundled up in the quarters he’d been so graciously offered. Strange, how generous a Warlord could be, even when faced with a repetitive, “unnecessary” daily challenge. Often, when he’s not trying to hone his Light to best Shaxx in combat (something he has not _yet_ accomplished, something Felspring refuses to let go of), Felwinter takes to walking the halls and grounds of Shaxx’s crumbling castle, assessing it for security and structure. He’s caught himself making adjustments in his mind that he immediately admonishes himself for; he is barely a visitor here, and his opinion of Shaxx, and of his ‘infallible’ fortress, has no place here.

More than once, Felspring had asked, with that air of innocence that puts him on edge, if he knew or thought about what Shaxx thought of him.

He’s tried his best to ignore that question, and all it entails. Shaxx’s ‘feelings’ of him, whether of respect or annoyance, have no place, either, while Felwinter stays here.

While his challenges have…not yet been successful, he’s learning. Felspring scoffs at him every time she has to reconstruct his body from whatever form of efficient brutality Shaxx chooses to employ for that day, but he is. The Warlord has been at least cordial, when he’s not decapitating him, or tearing his arms from his sockets. And only he and his Ghost know of their true reason for staying here, beyond the duties of the Iron Lords. Only they know what lies dormant beneath the Warlord’s grounds, of this he is certain.

“There’s no mistaking that energy signature,” she murmurs to him, one evening, as he walks the torch-lit corridors he’s grown begrudgingly familiar with, tucked into the folds of his thick cloak, “It’s a Warmind vault.”

The few Lightless folks still out in the frigid night regard him silently, and while the lines of distrust have left most of their faces, he knows better than to expect or want respect. He’s more likely to have garnered fear. He always has been. It makes things easier, in a way he hadn’t considered, until the first time he killed someone where someone else could see him.

“If that’s true,” he ruminates, once they’ve turned a corner and found themselves alone again, just their voices and his boots on the stone, “Then there is much to be done here.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she chides him, and he feels no need to respond.

He has not been comfortable since he first awoke and saw the streak of vivid orange against a smoky sky, a herald, an omen. He has not felt safe since the world came crashing down around him in the form of a collapsing library. He has not felt peace since he learned that his secret was always going to be his greatest strength and his deadliest weakness.

He’s coaxed out of his circling thoughts by the sound of…moving water?

“Another one of Shaxx’s ongoing restoration projects, maybe?” Felspring perks up, shifting in his collar, “Or does he have a secret fountain or something around here? Better than a throne.”

“Hush,” he says, but he finds himself heading towards the source of the sound, anyways, feeding Solar energy into his hand, just in case, a precaution. He reaches an open doorway, awash with more light than the dark hallways, and when he turns his head to see what nonsense project Shaxx has been working on, he doesn’t immediately process what he sees.

Shaxx is there, for certain. He’s seated in what appears to be a bath. Felwinter can’t be too sure about much else because he whips his head back around the corner, feeling unfathomably that he’s seen something he shouldn’t have while he stays plastered to the wall. The energy he’d summoned in his palm turns to smoke as he fumbles with his concentration.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ Felspring says in his mind, tone somewhere between astonished and exasperated, and for a moment, he thinks that she’s right, somebody must be playing a joke. There’s absolutely no way the Warlord of this area is just…sitting in a bath, at night, alone, unarmed, and unarmored. Unclothed, really, by the looks of it.

Shaxx, to his credit, hadn’t seemed to notice him, which puts Felwinter even further on edge. What if he’s attacked? Not that he doubts his combat prowess, of course; he’s been on the receiving end of enough of his punches to understand that even unarmed, the Warlord is plenty formidable. It seems odd, though, that he feels…at ease enough to simply sit, with his eyes closed. Surely he doesn’t expect to be attacked in the middle of his own castle, but—does he not remember that Felwinter himself is still here within the very same building, an unknown variable, neither friend nor apparent foe? And is the most opportune time to attack a well-known Warlord not in his own home when he least expects it?

 _Quit thinking so loud_ , Felspring chides him, though he very much doubts she disagrees with his reasoning. Even back on the peak, he can’t recall a time he’d ever felt the want or need to just sit in warm water. What is the _point?_ He’s heard of such things, of course, read about them in logs and even full books when he could get his hands on them; bathing practices, usually as maintenance for one’s body, sometimes as a social activity, but…

Another quick glance around the doorway’s corner confirms that Shaxx seems to be alone—or as alone as a Lightbearer can ever be—and he is most definitely wearing just about nothing, and with not a weapon around. He looks….at ease, a stark contrast to the proud, brash figure he presents at the beginning of each day when Felwinter comes around to leverage his daily challenge. He almost starts to wonder exactly how warm the water must be for Shaxx to not be cold, when--

 _Hey,_ Felspring cuts into his thought stream again, _This might be a good time to try a more…articulate approach._ _You know, maybe play nice a little?_

 **I always play nice** , he retorts to her, internally, before he turns the corner like he hadn’t been standing just around the bend for the past several minutes.

Even as he approaches the bath—it’s almost more so a small pool, deep enough near the far edges to comfortably stand in, and tiled in white—Shaxx doesn’t acknowledge him, despite the noisy click of his boots on the floor. He sits, sprawls even, at an inlaid seat on one side of the water, face tilted towards the ceiling. As he comes closer, Felwinter can see the steam curling from the surface, and the remnants of suds surrounding the Warlord. Some leftover soap clings to the prominent curve of his throat, trailing down into the dip in the musculature of his chest. Felwinter drifts to the edge of the bath, settling at the far end, and Shaxx finally turns his head to look at him.

 _Careful_ , Felspring chirps, as Felwinter’s cloak alights around him, and when Shaxx says nothing, simply regarding him, he resorts to one of his best weapons: quips.

“So,” he starts, testing the proverbial waters, “The helmet _does_ come off.”

Shaxx regards him silently for a long moment, the water undulating around him with his steady breathing, and Felwinter is just about to poke him further when he finally responds, voice noticeably less brassy than this morning in the courtyard, “I was wondering when you’d quit skulking out in the hallway,” the jut of his chin lowers slightly, “And Of course it does. Doesn’t yours?”

This sparks something Felwinter will later recognize as _frustration_ in him, but he steadies himself, giving Shaxx a long look in return, invariable, before he deflects, “This isn’t my face, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I asked what I asked,” the Warlord states, and he shifts, sitting more upright, water swirling around him. His Ghost is nowhere in sight, and the only other things of note nearby are a shallow bowl, what Felwinter assumes is a towel, and a worn book that he can’t quite make out the title of from this distance.

“Why are you here?” Felwinter decides upon, settling his hands in his lap, the very picture of undisturbed on the outside. He elects to ignore Felspring’s mind-linked sigh.

“I could ask you the same thing,” is the smooth reply from the other end of the bath, Shaxx regarding him how a lion might regard a hyena. The ‘this is _my_ castle’ goes unsaid but well heard. Felwinter feels his own face contort against his will and he takes a moment to smooth his palms over the fabric of his cloak, choosing his words.

“I was walking,” he offers, piecemeal, “I was walking, and thinking.”

Instead of prodding, of nosily asking exactly what thoughts had been on his mind, of studying his conscious for weakness like Felwinter wants and expects, Shaxx simply sighs and leans back against the wall of the pool, “That’s why you keep losing your ‘challenges’. You’re either too far in your head, or too busy trying to get into mine.”

A scuffle ensues between his innate pride and the desire to ‘play nice’. He taps his fingers in a way he passes off as mindless, belying the flare of irritation that tenses his wrists and knuckles. Shaxx’s sharp gaze catches the motion, but he continues, to Felwinter’s surprise, tone back to evenness, “I am relaxing. I spent the rest of the day making sure the outer walls of the fortress are as insulated as they can be.”

“You are relaxing,” Felwinter echoes, the need for information and understanding outweighing the sleights to his pride for now, “By sitting in warm water?”

“And reading,” the Warlord adds, with nothing but bland cordiality in his tone now, less of the cold cracks he fires at Felwinter during and after their bouts. He glances at the book laying to the side, disappointed in himself for his interest in whatever drivel Shaxx reads in his downtime. He must take Felwinter’s silence as confusion because he tacks on, “This is relaxing to me, at least. Not sure if someone like you would get much enjoyment out of this.”

Felwinter feels himself start immediately trying to discern exactly what Shaxx means by that, by ‘someone like you’, Felspring outright snorting at him. Like _what_? An Exo? A Warlock? An Iron Lord? A fugitive? A runaway?

Someone who has only ever existed on borrowed time?

“Someone like me?” he finds himself asking to cover his reeling, deciding that if Shaxx wants to play the proud wolf, then he might as well play the supposed ‘sheep’; waiting, lurking.

The Warlord’s shoulders rise and fall in a semblance of a relaxed shrug, “You just don’t seem the type to find relaxation easily. Sitting in a bath would surely just annoy you.”

Before he can fully tamper down the swell of vexation at how this arrogant, stubborn _fool_ thinks he knows _anything_ about him, with Felspring muttering warnings down the neurolink, Shaxx barges onwards, sounding oddly thoughtful, “No, that wouldn’t do for you. You’d probably need something that requires more of your focus in order to feel at ease. Something more…active.”

When he wrangles his indignation back into place behind the curtain, he focuses back on the form of the man across the water. His posture betrays no tells, so far, but something in his gaze has changed, and Felwinter feels as if now he’s the one being studied as he feels more than sees Shaxx’s eyes on his own form.

“More active?” he turns a hand palm up in invitation, willing himself to let whatever inane thing comes out of this man’s mouth next just…happen, “I’m not sure I follow.”

 _I can’t believe you’re actually just sitting here, talking to him,_ Felspring murmurs to him, awe suffusing her tone. **I’m ‘playing nice’** , he responds through theoretically gritted teeth.

Shaxx hums as he contemplates him, arms thick with corded muscle shifting as he strokes his chin, “I’d say sparring might work, but our daily fights don’t seem to offer you much release.” Felwinter inclines his head in a way one might interpret as a nod but is mostly just so he doesn’t say something overly snarky to shove the conversation sideways again. The Warlord goes on, “There are plenty of other ways to go about that, though. You seem smart enough, you’ll figure something out.”

While he’s trying to figure out if Shaxx meant his words to be complimentary, the Warlord in question reaches for the book laying just within arm’s reach, and his train of thought gets…derailed, somehow, as he watches his body in motion. Later, he will brush off his own intense stare as merely part of his continued appraisal and questioning of Shaxx’s actual strength, and Felspring will outright laugh at him, for some reason.

“I’d like to get back to my reading,” Shaxx holds his book up, and Felwinter finally catches the title: ‘The Winter’s Tale’. That is a dismissal, he thinks, and he rises back to his feet smoothly, rather than risk the ire of his host. He feels Shaxx’s gaze upon him rather than his book as he leaves, and the former Ghost at the back of his helm confirms this. He lingers in the doorway for a moment, leaving the lord of the castle with a single word: “Tomorrow.”

Back in his own quarters, he ponders why it is that they had both allowed the conversation to occur in the first place. He wonders why it is that he finds himself thinking of Timur, of the playful barbs he’d used to cajole Felwinter with, of how he’d stand much closer than he’d need to when speaking about their next destination in their hunt for vaults. He questions himself into bitterness on why he thinks of speaking to Shaxx in the same way.

The next day is the first day he lands a solid hit on Shaxx.

In a close quarters scuffle, Shaxx reaches for his throat, and instead of trying to get to safety, instead of trying to think of what either of them would do next, he simply headbutts the Titan’s chin and pulses a burst of Solar Light through his hands, clawing at his opponent’s chest. When Shaxx staggers backwards, he chases him instead of assessing the risks and weighing any pros and cons, closing the distance again. Without thinking, without worrying, and out of pure spite, Felwinter swings heavily for Shaxx’s stupid, proud helm, closed fist glowing with Solar energy.

To his utter surprise, it connects. Cleanly.

There’s a moment where the dust around them seems to settle, and Shaxx seems just as surprised as Felwinter feels, cupping his jaw with one hand. He’s managed to shatter the lower plate of his helmet, and he can just barely see the cut and quickly bruising skin underneath, crimson catching along Shaxx’s gloves. “That’s more like it,” the Warlord says, and for some reason, he sounds like he’s smiling. Felwinter feels warmth bloom somewhere near his core, for some reason.

 _You’re ridiculous_ , Felspring sighs at him, _Utterly ridiculous._

And then, Shaxx punches Felwinter’s head clean off his shoulders.


	2. En Guarde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A Shakespeare play,” Felwinter supplied, because he was actually somewhat familiar with it, “About jealousy, love, and magic.”  
> [“It’s one of my favorites. You’ve read it?” Shaxx asked, and Felwinter noted with no small amount of incredulity that he hadn’t moved back into his own space yet, though he’d crossed his arms.  
> “Not in full,” he responded, flicking through his mind to a review he’d read of a specific performance of the play, stilling when he realized that Shaxx wanted him to read this play, “Are you offering this to me?”  
> “To borrow, yes,” the Warlord clarified. “And, if you can stand to finish it,” he’d tacked on, with just the slightest bit of mirth, “You’re welcome to borrow more.”  
> And so, the challenge had been issued.]  
> Two Lightbearers dance around each other and start a book club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back at it again with a significantly chunkier piece of this work. I severely underestimated how much content I've got planned, so the chapter total goes up to at least 3. Writing this has made me like Shaxx even more than I already did (which is quite a bit). Felwinter being simultaneously adept at reading other people and completely oblivious to certain types of emotions and attention is something I'm enjoying very much.  
> Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think! Find me on twitter @shimadagans.

“So,” Felspring starts, in that smarmy tone she uses when she thinks she’s onto something, or someone, “You got distracted again?”

He had _not_ , in fact, been distracted. He had been focused entirely on the fight. He’s been getting better lately, and even his daily opponent has said so, albeit offhandedly. He’s been trying to do more of that ‘impulse’ thing, the thing that he used to think would leave him permanently dead. Shaxx has said he has no intention of shooting or otherwise maiming his Ghost as long as that goes for his own, and while Felwinter doesn’t _trust_ him, per say, he’s left no reason to _not_ be trusted…

Ah, right. Today’s fight.

He’d been ducking and weaving, opting to stay just out of the Warlord’s preferred range (close—awfully close) and going for hits in spots he knows he’d been successful with before. Less thinking, more moving. In his meditations, he thinks of flowing water, of oozing magma; he imagines his very essence broken down into fluid that stretches and circulates around his target. It’d been working out for him, today, until Shaxx laughed, all brute force and brightness and pure excitement, exclaiming about how much of a ‘good time’ he was having. Felwinter had found himself momentarily, inexplicably stunned, and the damned Titan had taken the opportunity to fling his entire frame by his arm into the nearest wall.

Not ‘distracted’. Stunned, or maybe confused. Why would Shaxx laugh like that in the middle of a fight to the near death? What kind of…oddity would get such enjoyment out of that?

“You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear your processors grinding,” Felspring notes, both smug and concerned, “You sure you weren’t distracted?”

He rests his hands in his lap, letting his head loll for just a moment, admitting it to himself and to his Ghost, “I don’t know.”

“The weirdest things always happen when you say that,” she notes, and no doubt she’s referring to the first bunker they scrounged through, with barely a care for the near-ancient security system that alerted the Warmind to their presence the second he wrenched open the rusted latches. They’d had to hide from frames for weeks after that, but the screens in the bunker had flickered to life under his hands, and the information they’d gathered…it had been _incredible_. Schematics, weapon arrays, things that hadn’t been touched by people nor Warmind since the end of the Golden Age. Felspring had mentioned the one here felt different, better protected. If they could find something even more powerful here…

“Well,” Felspring floats down to his eye level, nudging him just a bit, “Just be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” he tries, and she just tuts at him in disbelief.

“Be _more_ careful,” she blurs into his face again, giving him a _look_ , “We’ve still got a few weeks left here. And you still need to figure out how you’re going to handle this. And handle him.”

“I know,” he says, and it feels like a guilty admission, as if he hasn’t been just playing along with Shaxx’s goodwill since that evening he walked in on him in the bath and had the rug tugged out from under him. Since then, instead of just nodding at him when he steps into the courtyard they’ve sectioned off for their bouts, the Warlord has started greeting him verbally. It’s usually just a “Felwinter,”, or “Iron Lord,” or “Morning,” something to that effect. Then they go about their usual business of routing (Shaxx) or being routed (Felwinter, usually). The matches are closer, now, as Felwinter dips his fingertips into the practice of fighting just to fight, instead of analyzing things from every angle. Practically nothing else is different.

But it still _is_ different.

The Lightless people who live nearby have stopped outright staring every time he ventures past the main walls. Now, they just glance at him like one would a strange bird clipping past; nothing too out of the ordinary. Just another Lord. He’s heard murmurs, though, when they think he isn’t listening.

(He learned long ago that knowing things that others don’t is powerful, and dangerous. He is always listening.)

The people talk about him, sometimes. Most of what they say are exaggerations of the truth: that he conquered a whole mountain (conquered is a strong word), that he’s killed so many people he’s lost count (he could never lose count), that he’s a god (utterly ridiculous). He finds them amusing, mostly.

One common thread, however, peeves him.

“Bet they’re fucking around up there,” grunts one man, hefting a sack of feed over his shoulder, “Lord Shaxx hasn’t let anyone else stick around this long. They’ve gotta be screwing.”

“Quit being so crude,” chides his companion, considerably younger looking, and following with a sack of their own, “Just ‘cause he hasn’t killed him yet doesn’t mean they’re…y’know.”

“Ah, youth,” the first snorts, “Listen, kid. He usually kills other Lords as soon as they show their faces. Got a friend closer to the castle, says she’s seen the two of ‘em just talking. Weird, eh?”

“Still doesn’t mean anything,” sniffs the other, and they amble off towards the fields, none the wiser to Felwinter just a few paces away, hidden behind the cobble wall. He turns smartly on his heel and changes course, following a different path and trying to ignore Felspring’s agitated muttering.

They have been…talking more, lately. That much is true.

About a week after that first encounter, he’d found Shaxx in what he learned was his personal library.

“You have a library?” he’d asked, admittedly surprised, both by the idea of the Warlord owning enough books to necessitate a library, and by the idea of him being careful enough to handle some of the more weathered-looking titles on the shelves.

Shaxx, who had been lounging in a large, well-used chair by the fireplace, had looked up from his book with the same measured approach as before, in the bath, “Yes. I like to read. We’ve established this.”

For not the first nor last time, Felwinter held his words before they could escape in a rush, a mix of hastened questions and dissatisfied witticisms. He busied himself with looking about the room. Shaxx’s Ghost was out in the open for once, resting atop the globe standing in the far corner of the room, though they peered at him when he stepped further into the room.

“What do you like to read?” he asked, under the guise of interest.

“Plays and poetry, mostly,” Shaxx replied, holding up the book he’d been reading, page still marked by a finger, “Stories about adventures, overcoming great obstacles. Sometimes about romance.”

This had confused him. This foreboding Warlord, who was infamous for how brutally he dealt with intruders and those who would otherwise threaten his domain, reading flowery romantic poetry in his downtime? His disbelief must’ve been evident in his usually-secure body language, because Shaxx had snorted at him, “What? Is that so hard to believe? Don’t you have things you like to do when you’re not picking fights or slinking around?”

The words themselves were sharp, but Shaxx’s tone and delivery had been…arch. Gamesome, even. Playful.

How odd.

“I read as well, sometimes,” he settled on, “Just not the same things.” It hadn’t been a lie, really, or even a half-truth; he does enjoy reading--there’s a certain satisfaction in pouring over information and grasping it by its roots, absorbing it. He’d spent hours leaned over a Warmind console, datapads, or even bound books, or manuals on many different topics: agriculture, languages, scientific studies, and history. He’d even stumbled upon and somewhat enjoyed the work of an author particularly focused on one single pre-Golden Age film about what people thought the future might look like for them—though they had been very, very wrong.

“Let me guess,” the Warlord stroked his chin in contemplation, setting his book aside on a nearby oak table, “Journals on scientific discoveries? Studies of ancient cultures? Manuals on the exact way to siege a mountain fortress?”

“Perhaps,” he had grit out, peeved both at Shaxx’s laid-back guesses and his own apparent obvious choices in literature, “I like to read things I can learn from.”

“And you think you couldn’t learn something from what I read.” Shaxx stated it instead of asking it, so Felwinter didn’t try to sway him, simply clasping his hands behind his back and turning to look at the shelves behind him, scanning for anything familiar.

“That isn’t what I said,” he opted for, finding extraordinarily little he’d read himself and even less that he’d found useful. He heard Shaxx stand and come towards him, then around him, going to a shelf and easing one book from it.

“You should try this one, then,” the Warlord said, offering the book he’d picked to Felwinter in what he surely thinks is a show of good will. An olive branch in the form of hardbound parchment. Felwinter reached out to take the book from him, perhaps a bit brusque, and glanced over the title: _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_.

“A Shakespeare play,” Felwinter supplied, because he was actually somewhat familiar with it, “About jealousy, love, and magic.”

“It’s one of my favorites. You’ve read it?” Shaxx asked, and Felwinter noted with no small amount of incredulity that he hadn’t moved back into his own space yet, though he’d crossed his arms.

“Not in full,” he responded, flicking through his mind to a review he’d read of a specific performance of the play, stilling when he realized that Shaxx wanted _him_ to _read_ this play, “Are you offering this to me?”

“To borrow, yes,” the Warlord clarified. “And, if you can stand to finish it,” he’d tacked on, with just the slightest bit of mirth, “You’re welcome to borrow more.”

And so, the challenge had been issued.

He voraciously consumed the book once, twice that evening, and then a third time the following day. He chased character quirks and double-entendres around in circles in his mind, surprised to find himself genuinely amused. The play, despite being relatively short, was thick with wordplay, with wit. That evening, he’d made his way to the library again, and it almost seemed like Shaxx had been waiting for him, seated in his chair by the fire with a tankard and yet another book.

“You’ve finished it,” he’d said, tone ever-even, “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” he’d replied, having let his surprise at that fact simmer all day, “I read it a few times. The characters were…interesting.”

“Well,” Shaxx had nodded at him from his spot, the horns of his helm casting wobbling shadows across the shelves, “I’m a man of my word. You’re welcome to borrow any of the books here, though with how quickly you made your way through that one, I’d suggest a longer work next.”

That night, Felwinter left the library with three more books; a journal Shaxx had found from one of the keep’s previous inhabitants, a book on botany, and, on the Warlord’s personal recommendation, a dog-eared and worn copy of _Hamlet_.

“If you really did enjoy the first book I lent you,” he’d said, tone low and perhaps a bit teasing as he pressed the clearly well-read play into Felwinter’s hands, “This is the same author, but completely different in tone. More…thoughtful. You might like this one more.”

When Shaxx didn’t pull his hands away, seemingly waiting for some sort of affirmative response and seemingly unaware of his invasion of personal space, Felwinter had simply nodded and taken a steady step back, “Very well, I will…let you know my thoughts on it. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Good,” Shaxx finally relinquished his hold on the book, but his steady gaze, even through the helmet, had kept Felwinter rooted as he continued, “I particularly enjoy the beginning of act three. Maybe we could compare thoughts on it once you’ve finished.”

The play was the first thing Felwinter picked up when he got back to his quarters, fresh snow still clinging to his cloak when he shed it at the door. He settled, seated on the bed, and turned the book over, wondering what exactly it was he was feeling right then, at the prospect of talking to Shaxx about the play. It was almost the same feeling he got when he’d first realized he could understand everything in the Warmind archives; equal parts excited and filled with dread.

Felspring floated down to rest on the pillow beside him, blinking up at him, “What’s going on with you? You’re all,” she had shivered, “Weird. Your head feels weird right now.”

“Thank you for informing me,” he’d muttered in return, flipping through the table of contents, the editor’s notes. This particular edition seemed to have illustrations preceding some of the scenes. Felspring had huffed at him and turned away from him, presumably going into standby as he read.

This story, he quickly realized, _was_ quite different from the last. Much darker, more focused on revenge, on death, and what comes after. The irony of this being supposedly one of Shaxx’s favorites did not escape him, and after breezing through the full work one time through, Felwinter flipped back through to find the first scene of the third act, the main character’s monologue. He read it through twice more, thinking of all the layers to it; was Hamlet contemplating suicide? Or was this more of a treatise on the reasons why one must keep living? Was death an active choice and life a passive one? If Felwinter himself had been in Hamlet’s boots, would he have chosen the same, not knowing that limited immortality lay just on the other side, in the ‘country’ no one returned from? Was there truly a choice, or just the illusion of one, meant to keep the latch shut on those who would seek the unobtainable answers just outside the realm of the living? Was it just some people’s lot in life, and in afterlife, to be followed by death?

Felwinter found himself pacing about his room as he thought, not having realized he’d risen from the bed at all. Felspring squinted at him from her perch, “You’re worked up over _something_. Maybe do some meditation or something, yes?”

And so, he had sat upon the floor, trying to work himself through the usual steps in his mindfulness. **Focus on the center, untangle the edge of the thread, pull yourself through your own body…**

In his mind’s eye, he saw the illustration from the page just before the soliloquy. Not unusual, he supposed, since he’d just read the damned thing three times. He let Solar light fill him slowly, like usual, and the scene suddenly…morphed. Where Hamlet had sat, Shaxx sat, looking thoughtful. In his outstretched hand, where Hamlet had been clutching a skull, he held Felwinter’s helm. Cast in a somber green-gray hue, the action seemed almost tender, pensive. Shaxx tilted the helm, _his_ helm, completely detached from his body, a few limp wires hanging from between his fingers as he studied it, studied _him._ As if from another room, Felwinter heard Shaxx’s voice flicker in and out of his sensors. The sound warped and distorted itself, bouncing off the edges of the jagged, ruined room they were in, but he seemed to be speaking to the helm, cupping the curve of it where Felwinter’s jaw would be underneath it, tracing one of the horns of it with a single thumb. The whole scene seemed to be something he shouldn’t have been seeing, something intimate, and his thoughts on it blurred by almost quicker than he could catch them—doubt, warmth, shame, fear, disbelief. Shaxx turned away from the helm, to where Felwinter sat, several feet away, rising to his feet, and finally he could hear what he was reciting, just barely:

_“With this regard their currents turn awry,_

_And lose the name of action.”_

Felwinter breathed abruptly back into his physical body with a ragged sigh, dimly aware of Felspring checking his vitals, murmuring about body temperature and core processor speeds.

“What in the cosmos is going on with you?” he heard her buzz as he numbly climbed back up onto the bed, every inch feeling like a mile, “Have you been overworking yourself? I thought we agreed we were going to keep a low profile while we were here, no weird stuff—”

“I’m alright,” he tried for, but it didn’t sound nearly as believable as he wanted it to. “I’m fine,” he tried again, voice a bit more even.

“Right,” she said, though she was still flitting about like a worried hummingbird, “Well. Maybe no more meditation for now. Maybe it’s time to just…sit and rest.”

“Rest,” he says, and the word tasted foreign, “Right.”

In the morning, he lost more soundly than usual. What he saw in his mind, where he was supposed to be _safe_ , it keeps coming back to him, unnerving. He’s sure Shaxx noticed his lack of focus, if the look he gave him across the courtyard after he was resurrected is any clue. He didn’t say anything, though, he just walked away, and for that, Felwinter was grateful. Nonetheless, he committed himself to practicing his footwork instead of trying to dissect whatever was going on with his thoughts. “Something more active,” he muttered to himself, recalling their earlier conversation at the bath. Felspring just snorted at him and loaded up his own notes on fencing steps.

In the now-familiar courtyard, with the ivy climbing the walls, he spent a few hours practicing just his footwork without a sword, trying to stay as light on his feet as he’d felt the first time he’d pulled a flaming blade from seemingly nowhere all those years ago. Felspring darted to-and-fro, a substitute opponent for him to gauge his distance with. Then, after he was satisfied with his steps, he pulled a stick from the nearby heaps of makeshift construction materials, using it in place of his Light. He’d also pulled his helmet off; certain he’d be alone until he chose to go find Shaxx again. Shaking his head, he’d gotten back into his steps, focusing on his lunges, on closing the gap, then trailing way without room for counter.

Someone had cleared their throat from a nearby archway and he had most certainly _not_ almost readied his ‘weapon’ to spear whoever had intruded on him. Shaxx leaned against the stonework there, holding two mugs. “Been at it long?” he asked, nodding at him, as if the two of them being near each other when they weren’t either fighting or discussing books was _normal_.

“A few hours,” he’d offered in return, setting the stick to the side and trying to ignore the itch of trepidation he felt at being barefaced in front of the Warlord, “What brings you back here?”

Shaxx shrugged and gestured—carefully—with the mugs he was holding, “Brought you something. You seemed on edge this morning. Well,” he’d barked out a laugh, “More so than usual. This helps me when I’m too wound up, maybe it’ll help you, too.”

Felwinter took the proffered mug with apprehension, and Shaxx must’ve read it on his uncovered face because he’d laughed again, “Don’t look at it like that, I wouldn’t poison you. It’s just coffee.”

“Coffee…” he’d said aloud, remembering something he’d read about it, somewhere, “That can’t be easy to grow in this climate.”

“Oh, no,” Shaxx had leaned back, putting more of his weight on the archway, “It’s not grown here. I get from a traveling merchant who comes through the valley sometimes. I just keep enough of it that I have it when I need it.”

Felwinter eyed the liquid once more before taking a hesitant sip, and warmth flooded his sense immediately. He felt himself blink and looked back up to Shaxx, who was watching him expectantly. “Oh, good,” he’d said, heaving a sigh of…relief? “I wasn’t sure if you could drink.”

That had startled a snort out of Felwinter, though he quickly covered it with a cough, “Yes, I am capable of drinking and eating, among other things.”

Shaxx had stared for a long moment, and with _his_ helm still on, he couldn’t quite tell why. “Interesting,” he said, and Felwinter felt…strange. Warm, maybe, but not because of the coffee. It felt almost like when Timur said something ridiculous or bawdry to him, but more present.

“Have you not met another Exo before?” he found himself asking, if only to cover for his own pause.

“Only once,” Shaxx shook his head with a heavier sigh, “And I didn’t know them long enough to ask them the same thing. Anyways,” he’d set his own mug down, and Felwinter realized it was empty, “What was it you were working on out here before I got here? Swordwork?”

Felwinter took another, steadier drink from his own mug, letting the warmth of it seep through the mug and into his fingertips, “Footwork, specifically.”

“I didn’t take you for a sword user, when we first met,” Shaxx said, and Felwinter wondered why it was he was talking to him in broad daylight, seemingly just to talk, “I admit I’m not very familiar with the ins and outs of it, myself.”

“Anybody can use a sword,” he replied, “Few can use one well.”

“Oh?” Shaxx had quirked his head, “Is that a _joke_ I heard from you?”

“Just a fact,” he’d hummed, and Felspring had sighed at him, for some reason, “It comes more naturally to some than others.”

“I suppose you assume you’re one of those few, eh?” Shaxx had clapped his hands together, “Show me.”

“Pardon?” he’d fixed Shaxx with a look, confused and perhaps a little unsure, “You want me to show you how to use a sword?”

“Well, maybe not a whole lecture,” Shaxx had moved across the courtyard already, fishing for one of the nearby sticks with a grunt, “Maybe just the short version.”

 **What do you stand to learn from this? Why do you want _me_ to teach you? What do I stand to gain from teaching you?** All these questions rattled around in his head, but none of them seemed fruitful with Shaxx standing across from him, waiting.

So, he’d swallowed the words and started walking him through the basics—how to stand, how to hold the weapon, basic movements. Shaxx proved a willing student, and when he couldn’t quite match his stances, Felwinter ducked to nudge his foot into place, or pushed his elbow into alignment. “My Light first took the form of a sword,” he said, showing Shaxx how to move forward and back strategically with the stick aloft, “So this may not be the ‘proper’ way to do this, but it’s how I learned, with my Ghost to help.”

“A sword,” Shaxx said, copying his form with just a little hesitance, “That seems fitting.”

“Broaden your stance,” he replied, tapping the back of Shaxx’s leg with his stick, “As dance-like as swordplay may be, the fundamentals of fighting still apply.” The Titan in question had acquiesced, and Felwinter had continued, “Does it seem fitting? How so?”

He’d expected a response that dodged the question or deflected, at least. Instead, Shaxx had taken a few slices at the air, then sighed, “You’re bold. Seemingly straightforward. There’s a certain amount of grace, of confidence in how you carry yourself. But,” he lowered the sword and turned back to Felwinter, gaze sharp on his face, “There’s versatility. A love of the fight. A keen double edge.” Felwinter lowered his own weapon slowly as he spoke, careful not to let any of the words provoke a visible reaction in the arrangement of his faceplates.

“And what did your Light manifest as?” Felwinter dared, choosing to not comment on Shaxx’s study of his character, “A hammer? A shield?”

“A crackling fist,” Shaxx answered, clenching one of his own, “And then, lightning coursing through my whole body. I became the weapon.”

“That seems fitting,” Felwinter echoed, then he tapped Shaxx’s ankle again before darting back to face him, raising his weapon again, “En guarde.”

He’d led Shaxx around the courtyard, thoroughly outpacing him, but instead of feeling pride, he’d just felt…light. Floaty, even. Shaxx had admitted defeat with a quirk in his voice that mirrored how Felwinter felt and taken his leave after just one tumble to the ground and one ‘sword’ pointed at his throat. “I’ll see you this evening,” he’d said, before ducking under one of the low doorways out of the courtyard.

Now, it felt like more of an agreement than an open invitation. Felspring sighed at him again and he choose not to engage her.

That evening, they met in the library again, and this time, Felspring materialized without him asking for her, darting off to go make nice with Shaxx’s Ghost, supposedly.

For the first time, he sat in the old chair across from Shaxx, the fireplace seeping warmth into his legs as they discussed _Hamlet_.

“What did you think about the soliloquy?” Shaxx asked, not holding a book this time, just his usual mug, settling his full weight into his battered chair. He’d forgone his helmet tonight in favor if being able to freely drink, it seemed, and when he’d offered Felwinter a mug, too, he’d mirrored him.

“There is a lot to consider,” Felwinter replied, the book open to the pages in question in his lap, “There is so much meaning fit into so few words. My first thought was that he was thinking of ending his life, but further readings brought new subtext to light; he’s merely reflecting on the fluid state of life, of its inherent passivity.”

He’d paused to gauge Shaxx’s thoughts, and the Warlord had nodded, “Go on.”

“Hamlet makes distinctions between all the things that tie him to mortality, then he branches off into hypotheticals. What if he were to cut said ties and delve into the longest dream? Is his only true choice in life to end his own life?”

“He mentions the unknown of the other side,” Shaxx added, gesturing with one hand, “He ponders on the gamble of going there, knowing nobody has come back. We know that it is possible, now,” he motioned between the two of them, Warlord and Iron Lord, “But there is no way the author, and thus, the character could’ve known of this possibility.”

“That’s true, and ironic,” Felwinter replied, steepling his fingers, mug forgotten, “The play was written hundreds of years before the Golden Age. Much has changed since then, and even more so since it was written. I couldn’t help but wonder,” he paused, remembering how he had paced, “What I would’ve done, in his shoes.”

“It’s a difficult thing to guess at,” Shaxx acknowledged him with another nod, tone pensive as he quotes, “ _The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will_ …”

The words sound so natural coming from Shaxx, eyes bright as he recites the text from memory. “ _And makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of?_ ” Felwinter continues, his own words sounding uneven, askew, “Weighing the slim possibility of obtaining power or knowledge outside the realm of mortality against the known trials and boons of existence.”

“And yet, in the end, his choice is made for him,” Shaxx offered, shaking his head, “And the choices of many others. It’s a wonder that anyone was alive to greet the Norwegian forces when they arrived.”

“Was his choice made for him?” Felwinter questioned, tapping a passage with his finger, “ _With this regard their currents turn awry_ —”

“ _And lose the name of action._ ” Shaxx finished, rubbing his chin with one hand. Felwinter got caught on the way the sleeve of his shirt clung around his forearm, “I could see where you’re coming from, yes. That Hamlet’s own first steps into what he considered revenge set off a chain reaction of misfortune to himself and those around him.”

“Exactly,” Felwinter felt the fire grow just a tad too warm and realized he’d been leaning forward. He settled back in his seat and waved a hand, “By taking arms against his _sea of troubles,_ he simply extended what he originally believed to be inevitable, regardless of his own action.”

“Was it worth it?” Shaxx wondered aloud, “If what you say is true, was it worth his time, his death, and the death of everyone he loved and cared for to achieve one pyrrhic victory? Would he have done the same out of love instead of hate?”

“It’s hard to say,” Felwinter supplied, the afterimage of his meditation flashing through his mind unbidden, “Would you have done what he did?”

“No,” Shaxx said, quite firm, surprisingly so, eyes on the fire burning on the other side of the grate, “Not quite, at least. I still would’ve pursued revenge, but not in the same manner. And you?” He turned his gaze back to Felwinter, “Would you have gone to such great lengths?”

“No,” Felwinter found himself saying, “I would’ve just slain Claudius in the open as soon as I knew for certain. Clean, simple. I could defend my reasoning afterwards.”

Shaxx had responded in laughter, a rich rumble of a sound, “Ah, that makes sense. You could use your razor wit to slice any infidels to ribbons.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or a portent?” he asked, faintly amused.

“It is whatever you take it as,” Shaxx replied, with something adjacent to a smile on his face.

Later that night, he nearly walked into a doorframe thinking about that expression, almost dropping the copy of _Julius Caesar_ he’d tucked under his arm and Shaxx’s insistence.

“You’re oblivious,” Felspring tutted at him, scanning him to remove the dent in his plating, “Ridiculous. Absurd.”

“Thank you. Now, what have I possibly done to draw your ire this time?” he asked, continuing into his room and removing his cloak. Tonight, it smelled faintly of smoke.

“It’s…argh, you’ll figure it out eventually. Traveler _knows_ you won’t stop thinking until you finally understand.” She floated past him to the pillow, “Hopefully that’s sooner rather than later, ugh.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, but his question went unanswered as she simply made a dismissive noise at him. He spent the night trying to figure out just what she had meant by that, and what Shaxx had meant.

And so, he’d spent the morning getting quite thoroughly destroyed in combat. Which is why he sits here, now, unsure of what more he could be careful of.

“This is partially your fault, you know,” he said, glancing back at Felspring as she flew towards the windowsill, “For saying such strange things last night.”

“The only strange thing here is what’s going on in your head,” she snarks, not even turning to look at him, “Not my fault you overthink to the point of exhaustion. I’ve told you a thousand times not to.”

“Prideful little thing,” he shoots back, choosing to ignore any more response in favor of cracking open the next book Shaxx had recommended.


	3. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“You look well,” he remarks, giving Shaxx a solid once-over now that he’s within reasonable distance—no bullet holes or marks on his armor, and his posture seems just as respectable as ever.  
> It startles a snort out of the Warlord, and he moves to join Felwinter by the fire, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. Felwinter feels proud of himself and shoves away the impulse to analyze why exactly he feels that way.]
> 
> Felwinter gets closer to the answers he's looking for, and so does Shaxx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, I should've known trying to put a early chapter limit on this thing was just going to make my brain see this as a challenge to squeeze every last word it can out of this plot. So, here we are. I'm now forecasting, in two separate chapters, a possible "good" end to this story that isn't as canon-compliant, and a more "neutral" ending that's closer to what we've picked from the bones of canon. (thats mostly a joke, i know destiny has lore reasons why we don't know much about things pre-The Last City foundation) I'm also foreseeing a rating change, so just a heads up.  
> Hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts if you feel up to it! and as always you can find me on twitter @shimadagans to see lil snippets of the next part before it gets posted :o

“I want to show you something.” Shaxx addresses him one morning, after their daily fight. This one had been close, but Felwinter had inexplicably lost focus when Shaxx had him pinned to the ground, his mind buzzing as well as near every inch of his body. That moment of confusion had cost him any chance of recovery as the Warlord took the opportunity to separate his head from his body quite cleanly. Felspring had laughed at him over the link as she’d resurrected him and refused to divulge her source of amusement.

“Another book?” Felwinter guesses, mostly joking. Their latest exchange had proved quite stimulating, over a collection of Greek poetry, with each of them provoking new ideas in the other’s train of thought.

“Not quite,” Shaxx shakes his head at him, beckoning for Felwinter to follow.

He leads them through the central part of the castle, down hallways Felwinter has only walked once or twice, and then down a long spiral staircase, lit only with torches. They emerge in what must’ve once been a storage room, and it is both dusty and damp at once. There’s a flicker of light—not fire, but electric—down the way, and Shaxx heads steadfastly in that direction, “I was making sure there wasn’t any damage down here before the next storm hits, in case the people need a better place to hunker down. I found this instead.”

Before them is the entrance to the Warmind vault. Felwinter feels a rush of exhilaration that he tries and apparently fails at tamping down, because Shaxx tilts his head at him, “Ah, I’d heard you and your friends were hunting these down with relish. What’s so special about them?”

“They are troves of information, usually,” he says, though it feels distant to him, like he’s hearing his own voice from the other side of the room, “There could be almost anything behind that seal.”

“Bet it comes as a surprise to find one here of all places,” Shaxx comments, idly tapping at the solid bunker door before turning back to face him, “The damned thing led me down here with music. It almost hurt to listen to.”

“I had no idea,” he manages, though he could already hear the music on the way down, like it was fraying the edges of his mind. He wonders for a moment if perhaps he’s more sensitive to it than Shaxx before he realizes the other is still waiting for him to speak, “These are scattered all over the planet, and others, most likely. The bunkers usually have many defensive mechanisms, meant to keep intruders out. This could be one of them.”

To Felwinter, though, the music sounds more like a demand, or perhaps a reprimand. A call to _return_ to _somewhere_. He still hasn’t figured out where that ‘somewhere’ is. He’s not sure he wants to.

“Do you think you can get into it?” Shaxx asks, leaning against the stone wall next to the console, “I tried earlier and didn’t get very far.”

_Wait_ , Felspring speaks up from the link, _we can’t take him in there! You know what happens when we get near any of the tech in these bunkers. It’ll raise too many questions, ones we can’t answer!_

**I’ve got this handled,** he assures her. _See that you do,_ comes the response.

“I can certainly try,” he says to Shaxx, stepping up to the console and typing away at the interface. He knows exactly how to get past these protocols, knows the syntax like the back of his hand, and he purposefully enters benign, incorrect information, hyperaware of how Shaxx studies his profile. He allows himself a tiny sigh as the screen lights up red: [ACCESS DENIED//в доступе отказано]

“I’m guessing that means ‘come back later’?” Shaxx tries for, posture betraying just a bit of disappointment.

“The Warmind can be...finnicky,” he decides on, crossing his arms in a show of frustration, “Sometimes, he—it, sometimes it doesn’t want to be disturbed. By anyone.”

Shaxx regards him quietly for a moment before sighing and leaning off the wall, “Well, it was worth a shot.” He turns to head back up the staircase, catching Felwinter’s shoulder in one surprisingly gentle hand on the way down the hall, “Thank you for trying.”

In the following daze, Felwinter doesn’t get out his “You’re welcome,” until the fluttering edge of Shaxx’s mark has disappeared around the bend of the staircase.

He gives the vault door one more glance before heading up the stairs, as well, Felspring muttering at him, _You’re going soft. And you need to work on your acting._

**I was multitasking** he snips back, resisting the urge to shake his head to clear his thoughts. His shoulder and all along the back of his neck feels warm and prickly, somehow, despite there only being metal and wiring there under the collar of his robes.

The next evening, both he and Shaxx are reading in the library, sitting in those worn, warm chairs, in what most would call a ‘comfortable silence’.

(Felwinter would not. He is rarely ever comfortable. Silence and noise can be equally deafening and sharing space with someone so regularly is still very, very new. He recalls the first time Timur tracked him down to ‘blow off some steam’ as he’d phrased it, tone infected with keen titillation. He wonders if that’s all it really was.)

Somebody clears their throat from the doorway of the shelved room, and Felwinter feels vindicated that he’s not the only one who reaches for a weapon as Shaxx’s fingers twitch towards the gun holstered to his thigh. At the same time, he reaches for the knife on his own leg, and instantly Felspring transmats his helmet back onto his head. He swears he hears Shaxx snort, but his helmet’s back on, too.

It’s on of the people from the village, though, one Felwinter recognizes as young and careful to avoid eye contact. They’re doing so right now, and their posture speaks of nerves. Shaxx lets his hands rest and Felwinter follows his example with hesitation. “Sorry to interrupt,” they say, eyes flicking between the two of them before settling on Shaxx, head lowered in a bow, “Lord Shaxx, some people have come to town. Other Warlords. They, um,” they fidget with the threadbare sleeve of their shirt, “They said they want to talk to you.”

Shaxx doesn’t turn his head from the young person, but Felwinter can tell he’s glancing at him before he answers, “Thank you for coming all this way, Galan. Has anyone been hurt?” And when Galan shakes their head no, “Good. Will you walk with me back to town so I can meet them?” His tone stays even, smooth, even comforting, and Felwinter spares a mite of admiration at how Shaxx remembered their name.

“O-of course, sir,” they stammer, ducking back into the hallway again as Shaxx heads towards the doorway. “I’ll follow you in just a moment,” Shaxx assures them, turning back to face Felwinter, tone lower and tinged with apprehension, “They’re here early. Weren’t supposed to be here for a few weeks. Either something is wrong, or something is about to be.”

“Why are they here?” Felwinter asks, also standing, any semblance of comfort gone, “Do they know I’m here?”

“I don’t think so,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter realizes he’s trying to comfort _him_ now, “Knowing that lot, they’re probably just around to try to sway me into joining them, and try to intimidate the people.” He shakes his head and sighs, “That’s part of why I stayed here, to keep them safe. Well, safer.”

“Ah, so you admit you protect them,” Felwinter lets just a little smugness creep into his voice, but he still feels the curl of dread deep in his frame.

“I admit nothing,” Shaxx counters, voice a bit lighter before he looks back to the doorway, shoulders raised, “I’ll be back.”

“And if you’re not?” Felwinter finds himself asking, then cursing himself for sounding like one of the ridiculous maidens from Shaxx’s favorite stories.

“I’ll be back.” It sounds more final this time, as Shaxx gives him a nod and follows Galan down the hall. Felwinter belatedly notices how close they’d gotten during their conversation when the Warlord is no longer filling that space, scarcely a few inches apart, and he waits until the footsteps have left his hearing range before sitting back down. The book of poetry open on his lap no longer feels inviting.

So, he waits.

An hour passes. Nothing to be alarmed about. Felwinter manages to get back into the poetry, and particularly enjoys a set of verses about the secret language of different types of plants.

The second hour comes and goes as he pokes through another book, a study of different political conflicts that juxtaposes various movements to great effect. He rather enjoys it and the essayist’s cynical tone, but when he’s finished with it, the twinge of dread from earlier settles in his core once more.

He tries to busy himself with finding another book to read, but he feels strangely unfocused. He tries to read the spines of the shelved volumes and finds it difficult to decipher anything, though he knows the letters and words quite plainly. With a huff he will admit to nobody, he turns to leave the library, chastising himself for sitting around waiting for the lord of the castle like some doomed secondary character. He could be _doing_ things, like trying to crack open that Warmind vault.

“Do you really want him to walk in on you busting open the doors?” Felspring sighs at him, popping out into the open, “Listen, I want to get in there as badly as you do, but it’s best to wait for a safer time, right?”

“Right,” he admits, though it peeves him. He still feels restless, though, an almost nervous energy simmering within.

“Geez, go take a walk or something,” she chides him, “Maybe Puck was right about you being too tense.”

“Puck? The fairy from that Midsummer play?” Felwinter steps out into the night chill and lets the cold seep into him for just a moment before drawing his cloak tighter around him. Felspring settles in the crook of his arm.

“No,” and he knows smarminess when he hears it, “Puck, Shaxx’s Ghost.”

He knows it’s bait, knows she’s trying to get a reaction out of him, so he keeps walking along the wall until he hits the stairs up to the ramparts, and only when he’s halfway up does he ask: “Oh? You’ve been speaking? I haven’t heard them speak.”

“You could say that,” she replies as soon as he asks, “He doesn’t talk much. Says it’s because he got damaged in a fight back when he first found Shaxx.”

Felwinter tries and fails to keep his piqued interest from showing, and he can just feel Felspring waiting for him to ask her more, all puffed up with pride. He indulges her, “And what do you two talk about?”

“You two, obviously _,_ ” is the blithe reply, “and Puck agrees with me most of the time, unlike somebody.”

He gives her a few more moments of silence as retribution for her continuing to beat around the bush. By the time he reaches the ramparts properly, he can feel her sulking. “What thoughts does Puck have about me, I wonder,” he offers, “Does he share your thoughts on me acting ‘strangely’?”

“Maybe.”

Felwinter grips the railing of the ramparts maybe a bit too tightly in irritation at that—the metal creaks beneath his gloved hands and he takes a moment to slowly relax his fingers. He gazes out at the other buildings in the complex. This late, most of the lights have been dimmed, but there’s a larger building at the center, a meeting hall of sorts, that still has brightly lit windows. Felwinter is certain that’s where Shaxx is meeting the Warlords. The building is not at all fortified, and the positioning of it in regard to the walls and other buildings isn’t ideal, but at least the roof had recently been repaired—

“Aren’t you going to ask if Shaxx has been weird lately?” Felspring presses on his train of thought like she’s sitting on it, “Puck says he has been.”

He wants to say no, that he doesn’t care if the Warlord has been acting weird, that he doesn’t want to hear about it, but suddenly, it hits him right in the gut like a punch: he’s worried. He’s _worried_ about _Shaxx_ , and he doesn’t like that he’s down there in the poorly-remodeled meeting hall after telling him something was wrong or about to go wrong.

Felspring, of course, picks up on his realization immediately, and her smugness goes down measurably, “…Puck said he’s been spending a lot more time taking walks to ‘clear his head’. That he’s been reading this one poetry book a lot, one he hasn’t read in a while. And,” she pauses for what is undoubtedly meant to be dramatic effect, “He spends a lot of time in his room after your fights just…thinking.”

A few weeks ago, Felwinter might’ve laughed at that, or dismissed it—one of the most defensive, brash, hard-headed Warlords he knows of, spending time on his own just to think?

Now, he thinks he knows better.

“Puck says he’s pretty sure he sits around thinking about you, y’know,” Felspring charges on, maybe too casual for his liking, “Kind of like how you sit around thinking about him.”

“I do not sit around thinking about Shaxx,” he insists, though he knows that _she_ knows that’s false.

“Right,” Felspring says, like she knows, “See, Puck says that Shaxx never takes his helmet off around other people. Never! And just a few hours ago, you two were just sitting around, no helmets in sight.”

“And Shaxx also has a reputation for not letting other Lightbearers live very long,” he defends himself, crossing his arms against what he tells himself is the cold and not indignation, “So perhaps it’s more that nobody lives long enough to see him without the helmet.”

“Exactly!” Felwinter shouts at him, and he nearly winces, “Why do you think that is, hm? Why do you think you’re still here? He’s sure beaten you up enough to have just gone in for the kill.”

“Because I challenged him in invitation instead of looking to usurp or attack him or his territory,” he starts, reigning in the swell of umbrage he feels at her provocation, “And he hasn’t killed me because he knows, if he did, the other Iron Lords would storm this fortress and leave very little standing. Even if he were to survive a full-on assault of that caliber, the same could not be said of the people, or the place itself.”

Felspring outright snickers, “You’re sure it has nothing to do with what he feels about you, specifically?”

“What Shaxx ‘feels’ about me,” Felwinter says, pointedly, turning away from the ramparts in a wide, unruly swing of his cloak, “Has little place in a discussion of practicality. We would’ve been killed upon arrival here if ‘feelings’ mattered one bit, just like the other Lords to pass through here.”

“Sure,” Felspring says, and the smarminess is firmly back in place, like they haven’t been discussing their possible death, “But still. No helmet. And the books? Really? You think he does that just for fun?”

“A way to pass the time,” he contends, “Nothing more.”

“You enjoy your discussions. Don’t try to tell me you don’t. Just like you enjoy spending time with him.”

“And if I do?” He turns back around, gaze fixed firmly back on the meeting hall, “My feelings aren’t important on the matter. We are here to get access to the vault and convince a Warlord that his interests align with ours. That’s it.”

“What if they _are_ ,” she insists, and despite the chill he knows she hates to face, she flies up to look him dead-on, “Look, I know we’ve been on survival mode for a long time. I know we haven’t had time or means to do much else but learn and run but things are _different_ now. And you have a choice.” She floats there for a moment before her frame sags with resignation, and she seeks the warmth of his cloak once more, “Just. Think about it. Think about what you want, both now and in the future.”

“What I want…” he says to himself, mostly in jest, but Felspring jabs his arm with one of her spines, so he resolves to spend at least a little while thinking about it.

Below them, he sees the door to the old tavern swing open, and an unmistakable horned helm crests the orange-tinted light that spills from the opening. He walks out into the snow and looks over his shoulder, and while Felwinter is feeling a great many things about how he seems uninjured, he looks up. The Warlord pauses in the doorway, and Felwinter ducks behind the nearest stone support, then curses himself for doing so for seemingly no reason. Felspring outright laughs at him, the little imp.

After a moment of collecting himself, he makes his way back down to the library, at a leisurely pace. He definitely doesn’t take the stairs two at a time or speed walk down the halls to get back to the library before its collector returns. He makes himself look as cozy as possible, stoking the fire just a bit and removing his cloak before cracking open the book of poetry he’d set aside earlier.

When Shaxx arrives not even half an hour later, he’s pretending to read, and he looks up at the other’s heavy footfalls. He waits for Shaxx to say something, and apparently, Shaxx waits for him to say something, so they simply stare at one another for a long moment before Felwinter sets his book down once more, having gotten through not even one sentence.

“You look well,” he remarks, giving Shaxx a solid once-over now that he’s within reasonable distance—no bullet holes or marks on his armor, and his posture seems just as respectable as ever.

It startles a snort out of the Warlord, and he moves to join Felwinter by the fire, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. Felwinter feels proud of himself and shoves away the impulse to analyze why exactly he feels that way.

“You say the oddest things sometimes,” Shaxx replies, forgoing his book to look across the tattered, once-luxurious rug at him, “I’m sure you’re burning with questions, though.”

Felwinter offers him a one-armed shrug, trying to come off as unhurried, “I might be, but I can be patient.”

Shaxx leans back in his chair, and the frame creaks with age and comfort, “Patient, indeed. Don’t worry too much, they weren’t here for you. They don’t know you’re here, just that the Iron Lords have been in contact with me.”

That troubles Felwinter, and he goes through the short list of Iron Lords who know of his extended stay away from the observatory they call home, thinking about possible liabilities. “Now where did they get that information from, I wonder?”

“I told them,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter feels the urge to berate him for not the first nor last time, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s in my best interests to be honest about what I can be. They asked me directly if I’d been approached by you lot, and I’m not a very good liar.”

Felwinter shakes his head at him and lets himself sigh, tapping the side of his helmet, “Very well. What exactly did you tell them?”

“Just that I’d been approached, nothing more. The topic of swaying me to their side was enough to get them to play nice.” Shaxx inclines his head, and his tone drops lower, “I wouldn’t put you in danger like that,” he clears his throat, looking at the fire instead of Felwinter, “Nor the people. These other Lords are less…chivalrous.”

Felwinter feels himself miss a beat, and while all the cues in Shaxx’s body language say _bashful_ , it seems ridiculous to think about the implications of what he said. So, he presses onward, trying to recover from the surge of warmth he feels crawling up his back. “Did they sway you?”

“They might think so,” Shaxx seems more than happy to move on, and his form droops visibly from what Felwinter guesses is relief, “That’s nothing new. They show up every few months or so, demand an audience, and act like we’re either the best of friends or mortal enemies. But,” he chortles, mostly to himself, “They all know that all of them put together wouldn’t be enough to come at me directly, so they have to respect my wishes.”

“The indomitable Lord Shaxx,” Felwinter says, quirking his head to the side, “I’m sure they would be surprised to find that another Lightbearer has been here for weeks, let alone an Iron Lord.”

“This is a…unique situation,” Shaxx answers, his helm tilted back in his direction as he gestures to Felwinter with one hand, “You came as a challenger, and are now also a guest. I don’t often have guests with intentions that aren’t deadly or—” he shakes his head, reaching for his discarded book, “Well, never mind that. How did you like the Tennyson bit in that volume?”

Felwinter lets the moment slip through his outstretched fingers, but the rush he felt lingers, just like the smell of smoke bundled around his cloak when he removes it at the doorway to his quarters later that evening.

“You’re getting closer, I think,” Felspring comments, oh-so-blasé, and when he looks at her for clarification, she just shakes her shell at him, “Not you two, but that is also true. I mean you’re getting closer to figuring it out.”

“Are we getting closer?” Felwinter asks, settling against the wall without the comforting weight of a book in his hands, forcing himself to think and speak plainly, “Or further apart?”

“Only you two know the answer to that,” Felspring replies, with a heavy note of cheek, and she _giggles._

“You,” he says, pointing a disdainful finger at her, “Are a menace.”

“And you,” she says, primly settling on the side table, cozying up to the lantern lit there, “Are oblivious. But persistent.” She mimics Shaxx’s voice, quite horribly, “ _There’s a love of the fight in you_!”

While he decidedly does _not_ fume, she cackles at him, then straightens out, “Alright, alright, really though. Make sure you think about what we talked about earlier. What do _you_ want? Not Rasputin, not the Iron Lords, not ‘all of humanity’ or whatever lofty goal you’ve got, Felwinter. _You_.”

“What indeed,” he says aloud, still studying his own hands, wondering how Shaxx would’ve reacted should he have chosen to reach out instead of retreat at the mention of the Warlord’s previous ‘guests’.

He spends the night meditating on it, and visions swirl around him, of their previous bouts, of their conversations in the library on even the most mundane topics.

The paradigm shifts, and now he sees things he’s sure haven’t happened: Shaxx meeting with the Iron Lords at the long table in the main hall of the converted observatory, with Felwinter himself beside him. The two of them walking together around the perimeter of the Warlord’s domain, but the grass is green, and the trees are laden with budding leaves. Felwinter walks through a crowded alley, pulling Shaxx along with him.

In the present, his hand feels as if its laying in the sunlight instead of the chill of his room.

He shutters his eyes, and when he reopens them, it’s to a sword at his neck, and the Warlord stands over him. A chunk of his helm is missing where his left eye sits, and it burns with fury. The scene shifts, and Felwinter is pressed against the wall of what he instantly recognizes as a Warmind bunker, and Shaxx is holding him there by his neck, squeezing slowly. He gasps for air he isn’t sure he needs, and he’s sitting next to Shaxx in the library once more, the fire crackling at their feet. The chairs they usually sit in have been pushed closer together atop the familiar rug, and Shaxx reaches across the meager gap for Felwinter’s hand, touching it as if it were a precious thing and not the tool, the _weapon_ Felwinter himself knows it to be.

He finds himself realizing that he _wants_ , that he wants to be wanted in such a way.

He comes back into himself like a breeze, slowly but with purpose, and he realizes he’s clutching his own hand, fingers clasped together in a mockery of a prayer. Felspring sits where she’d settled earlier, the heat of the lantern has depleted, and the sun peeks out from the horizon as if it’s afraid of being spotted. Nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, Felwinter can’t help but think that something, _everything_ has changed.


	4. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Felwinter eases back against the wall of the basin, letting his head rest on the edge. Shaxx’s eyes dart along the wiring that curves down his neck and into his shoulders, then down, down, and Felwinter weaves his fingers together, resting his hands against his torso, feeling oddly self-satisfied.  
> “If you recall,” Felwinter murmurs, “I said I can eat, and drink, among several other things. You never asked for clarification.”  
> “I suppose I didn’t,” Shaxx responds in kind, leaning back, himself, “If you recall, I’ve only met one other person like you, and this wasn’t something that came up, either.”]
> 
> Felwinter decides on a course of action. The outcome is...favorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the sloooow burn. I fought with myself a little over whether I should try to be more concise with this thing or not but I figure since there's uhhh not a lot of content for this niche, I'll give it my all. Expect 6-7 chapters by the time this thing is finished. We are GOING PLACES. Please enjoy, and let me know in the comments if anything really sticks with you.

Felwinter comes to terms with several things rather quickly, after his small, great revelation.

First, he enjoys Shaxx’s company. As much as he’d like to deny it, he likes being around him, and finds himself looking forward to when they can spend time together next. He likes bouncing ideas off him, and fielding Shaxx’s thoughts as well.

Secondly, Shaxx seems to enjoy his company, in turn. He continues to seek Felwinter out, even outside of their expected meetings in the mornings and evenings, simply just to talk, to be near. He brings Felwinter things he thinks he’d enjoy—a different blend of coffee, a type of spiced biscuit, a book he’d found in a traveling merchant’s stock but he _insists_ that Felwinter read it first because “it seemed like you’d like the author’s style”.

Thirdly, Shaxx has gotten…more tactile. Or, perhaps he always has been, and it’s just now that he’s noticed. He seems to find reasons to stand or sit closer to Felwinter than before, when he’d first arrived. During their fights, he employs close-quarters maneuvers that almost always seem to end up with Felwinter beneath him or pinned to the courtyard’s wall. There’s always just a mite of hesitation before Shaxx lands the last blow, where Felwinter isn’t just pinned by his weight or his hands, but also by the intensity of the gaze he can feel from behind his helm. After he’s been brought back (usually with Felspring tutting at him needlessly), Shaxx has started clapping him on the shoulder with a “Good fight”, or helping him back up with just one arm, as if he’s weightless. Occasionally, his hands linger, on his arm or his hand. Sometimes, when they are in the library, Felwinter will peer at the shelves to find a new volume to crack open, and Shaxx will stride on up beside him and reach over him, or around him, to pull a book seemingly at random to offer him, enclosing him against the shelf for just a moment. Felwinter is both stunned and chagrined that he hadn’t noticed sooner.

It feels almost like a test, like Shaxx is seeing what he can get away with. Like he’s playing with him, or dancing.

More and more, Felwinter feels as if he is simultaneously failing and passing with the highest marks.

Lastly, Shaxx looks at him when he thinks Felwinter can’t see or isn’t paying attention.

(He’s always paying attention. Rest, idleness is not a luxury he's often been afforded, and he’s not about to make a habit of it now, with so many things lurking in the space between his mind and the Light. He cannot chance a lapse in attention. He will not make the same mistakes again.)

Shaxx looks at him in a few ways, ways Felwinter can differentiate even through that damned helmet just by his body langauge. Sometimes, he looks at him like he wants something but isn’t sure how to ask or approach the topic. Sometimes, he looks at him like he’s a puzzle Shaxx is keen on figuring out. And, sometimes, he looks at him like he’s a source of contentment, of happiness.

This last classification gives Felwinter the most pause out of all of them, though all three give him plenty of room for thought. He can’t recall a time when anyone looked at him like that, like he could bring them even a mite of joy. He’s become used to being looked at with wariness, outright fear, awe, or even indifference. Among the Iron Lords, he feels at worst just tolerated and at best respected, but joy? Excitement? Only Timur comes close, and even then, he’s never without ulterior motives or research in mind. He knows the other Iron Lord enjoys his company, at least in bed, in theory, but Timur has never sought him out to pick his mind about philosophy unprompted or felt the need to bring him things he thinks Felwinter would enjoy. Their…arrangement is one of pure convenience, in Felwinter’s eyes—an out if they need it, two Warlocks seeking comfort in each other’s bodies and minds, two outsiders sharing space meant for one. An exploration, just as much of a learning experience as cracking open another bunker together and scouring the data for value.

However, just as he cannot imagine Timur offering him coffee, he cannot parse Shaxx approaching him in the salacious way Timur seems right at home attempting. He supposes, if he widens his parameters, that Timur makes him feel ‘wanted’, but the more he thinks about it, the more he understands that this, whatever Shaxx’s gaze is filled with, is simply not the same.

The idea scares him.

(Felwinter fears very little, save the siren song of Rasputin’s network and being dragged back to _somewhere_ against his own will. He is _wary_ of many things, of other Lightbearers, of unmarked frames, of slashes of vermilion against a singed, sunless sky. Now, he is afraid of someone getting hurt and being unable to do anything about it.)

Now, he has to make more of an effort to maintain his blank slate posture and even inflection. Despite Shaxx’s increased familiarity, he notices that the Warlord has stopped taking his helmet off around him. He finds that _bothers_ him, and he becomes more bothered when he realizes it. Felspring has whispered conversations with Shaxx’s Ghost that he cannot eavesdrop on and she refuses to give him any insight into their exchanges, but she continues to chide him for his busy mind and the way his body freezes up with something other than the cold when Shaxx is too close for too long.

Once or twice, the Warlord even questions him about it, still very much in his space, and Felwinter has so far managed to deflect, but he can physically feel his ability to appear unaffected being blown away like dust.

His efforts to find answers through meditation bear no fruit, either. He tries to feed his Light into himself to find balance one afternoon after Shaxx redirected one of his blows, sending him careening sideways and right into a wall, where he was held for several long, agonizing seconds against the full press of the Warlord’s chest before Shaxx snapped his neck. When he manages to get into the right mind space, he’s greeted by wistful, pastoral flickers of scenes that echo his previous visions—always accompanied by the Warlord. They walk together, sit together, even dance together, and all the while Felwinter feels as though he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t see, gossamer diffused and so… _intimate_ that it makes him _ache_.

So, after two days of losing, meditating, and then spending the rest of the afternoon and evening pretending that he hasn’t lost hours trying to discern his next course of action, he chooses a path. He settles his palms on the floor of his room, fingers digging into the stone, and understands _resolve_.

The next morning, when Shaxx decimates him in hand-to-hand for not the first nor last time, he lets the Titan pull him to his feet after Felspring brings him back. Shaxx’s hand lingers, curved around the plating of his right arm guard, as it has before. “Good fight,” he says, and Felwinter looks at him. He has to look just a tad upwards to meet where he assumes Shaxx’s eyes are, but now he does not feel lost, or nearly as overwhelmed.

He feels…resolute.

Just as Shaxx starts to pull away, perhaps realizing that they’ve just been standing scant inches apart and staring at one another through their helmets, Felwinter lets his other hand ghost over the Warlord’s hand, still enveloping his right arm. “Thank you,” he says, making sure to keep his voice low, unassuming, resting his hand over Shaxx’s for just a moment before the Titan pulls away fully. He gets a full three seconds of staring and then a nod before the Warlord turns quite smartly on his heel and marches away.

“What was _that_ about?” Felspring asks as Felwinter watches Shaxx’s retreating back.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, feeling about as light as a breeze.

Later, of course, Shaxx comes back to the courtyard as he’s walking through a series of more complex sword forms. Felwinter hears him approach with footfalls he doesn’t bother to mask, but he doesn’t turn, moving swiftly between forms. He strikes at an unseen opponent, then drops into a roll, finishing with a flourish of three quick stabs. His mind skips through several possible courses of action and he settles on one, lowering his weapon. When he does turn to face Shaxx, the Warlord is leaning against the arch, arms crossed and quite openly staring if his body language is truthful.

“If you have time to watch,” Felwinter says, relaxing his stance, “You have time to join me.”

Shaxx cocks his head to the side and stays in the shade a moment longer before stepping out into the early afternoon sunlight, taking the stick Felwinter offers him and moving to stand opposite him with a snort.

“What’s the lesson today?” Shaxx asks, tone light as he brings the makeshift weapon up to match Felwinter’s.

“Deflection,” Felwinter decides on, plans weaving together in his mind, “Counters. Knowing how to hold and wield a sword is barely half the fight. If your foe knows the ways of the weapon better than you do, and knows that they’re more learned, it does you little good to only play offense.”

Shaxx nods at him, seemingly letting the words wash over him, “Alright, then. Should I try to get to you?”

“Not quite,” Felwinter can feel his own facial plates sliding into a rare grin without much prompting, feeling much like a fox within lunging range of a rabbit, “This is easier to learn by being on the receiving end of it. Ready yourself.”

He gives Shaxx a heady second of preparation before he pounces, immediately going for a swing he knows will throw Shaxx off-kilter. True to form, the Warlord has to shuffle his feet and arms around sloppily to manage a deflect, and Felwinter presses the advantage, taking two quick steps into his space, telegraphing his next move quite obviously so Shaxx has a chance to match his posture.

“Good,” Felwinter allows, as Shaxx holds his weapon perpendicular to his own, “Bear in mind that with a real edged sword, you’d want to use the flat bit of it to do that. Use the sharp side, and—” He applies quick, sudden pressure to Shaxx’s weapon, and it buckles under his weight, snapping cleanly.

The Warlord studies the splintered crease and sighs, turning to get another stick from the pile. “You’re not going easy on me today, are you?” he quips as he returns to face Felwinter.

“Do I ever?” he responds in kind, “Mind your stance. Try to deflect me.”

Shaxx does try, truly. Felwinter can almost see his brain working to translate his thoughts into movement.

But he’s not aiming to teach, today. Today, he aims to appraise, to engage. To prove.

Shaxx manages a couple clean deflections, and Felwinter awards him with dry praise, but the whole time, he watches for patterns, for cracks in Shaxx’s defense. He can see Shaxx’s mounting frustration in the increasing aggression with which he swings his weapon. About a half hour of trading blows in, he sees a moment and seizes it.

Shaxx deflects a blow meant for his side and shifts his stance to a more offensive approach, and Felwinter squeezes in between the gap, disarming him with a solid _thwack_ to his dominant hand. In a second, fluid movement, he unsheathes the curved knife on his thigh and has it to Shaxx’s throat before the Warlord’s dropped weapon hits the ground. With his arm pressed into Shaxx’s shoulder and the side of the knife just a breath away from his jugular, he physically feels Shaxx swallow as Felwinter assesses him. The dim winter sunlight on his back is barely lukewarm compared to the heat radiating from the Titan.

“Another lesson,” Felwinter murmurs, voice low as he keeps his knife right where it is, “Be prepared for anything your opponent might use against you.”

“Noted,” Shaxx says, after a long beat, and his voice sounds strained, but not in the way Felwinter expects. It sends a thrill of…something down his spine. He steps back to avoid chasing it and rehouses his knife, watching Shaxx take a deep breath in what he assumes to be relief at being able to breathe properly again.

“Shall we go again?” Felwinter asks airily, and Shaxx makes no motion to retrieve his abandoned stick. He just stands there for a moment, posture markedly rigid before he seems to realize Felwinter is waiting for an answer.

“No,” he responds, finally, and he starts walking back to the archway he’d emerged from, “I just remembered, I have a…matter to deal with.” He ducks into the shade once more, glancing over his shoulder at Felwinter, “I will…see you in the evening, I assume?”

“Possibly,” he returns, not turning to look at the Warlord in lieu of retrieving his ditched weapon. He hears him mutter something under his breath, but by the time he looks back to ask what unintelligible thing he’d said, Shaxx has already turned the corner.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Felspring comments, popping up next to him as he sets the sticks aside neatly, “And while I’m having a fantastic time watching this, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I believe I’m winning,” he replies.

By the time Felwinter seats himself in his usual chair by the fire that night, Shaxx seems like he’s back to normal as he stokes the fireplace before settling across from him.

“Seems like there’ll be a real beast of a storm blowing in tomorrow night,” he says, conversationally, and Felwinter wonders how they got to the point where talking about the weather is acceptable, normal, “I’m hoping that’s not the case.”

Felwinter recalls the last trip Shaxx made into the town before the Warlords had shown up. He’d come back seeming self-satisfied in the way that a hard day’s work presents itself after helping the townsfolk patch up some of the houses. Still, though…

“Most of the buildings won’t provide much shelter in a strong blizzard,” Felwinter says, resting his head on one fist, elbow propped up by the arm of the chair, “Even with the repairs that have been made, any sort of strong wind will tear right through what little insulation is there.”

“Yes,” Shaxx breathes out, and it seems like he deflates just a tad, “I was thinking of asking people if they’d want to take shelter within the castle itself, but I have a feeling many will refuse. Something about ‘owing me too much already’.”

Felwinter thinks of when he first claimed the peak the Iron Lords now live upon, of the woman from the village below who insisted on bringing him supplies, a tribute. He imagines the people here must’ve done the same thing when Shaxx first became their defender, and that they probably still try to.

“Will you ask anyways?” Felwinter questions him, shifting to rest one ankle on his other knee.

He feels Shaxx’s gaze linger on him before he answers, “Yes. I’ll be heading into town tomorrow afternoon to tell everyone.” He pauses, turning his head back to the flames, “You could come along, as well. If you wish to.”

This, Felwinter admits, startles him enough that he raises his head from his closed fist. “Oh? Afraid of being mobbed as a hero if you go alone? Or are you just looking for my company?”

“No,” Shaxx says, too quickly, then he shakes his head, “It’s just that if people _do_ end up wanting to stay here during the storm, it’s best if they know who you are. I don’t want you being unknown to be a deterrent.”

Felwinter studies his stance from across the rug, watching the flicker of firelight glint off the profile of Shaxx’s helmet. “Alright,” he agrees, surprising himself, “If you think that would help.”

“You don’t have to if you—oh,” Shaxx turns to look at him again, apparently also surprised, “You—well, then. Appreiciated.”

He looks for a moment like he wants to say something else, but he just reaches for the book next to him and settles in his chair, and that’s that.

Felspring shoots him a look from where she’s conspiring with Shaxx’s Ghost in the corner by the faded map on the creaky table. Felwinter has no idea how to interpret it, but it’s almost as if she rolls her singular eye at him.

They head down the next morning after their daily bout. Felwinter’s midsection still feels like it's buzzing with residual Arc energy from when Shaxx dug his hands into his plating and squeezed his wires out of their sockets until he blacked out, but he manages as they make their way down the rocky path that leads down into the town. People start emerging from their houses nearly as soon as they arrive at the proper outskirts, a few children outright running to Shaxx with excited shrieks as he leads Felwinter past cobbled buildings and thatched roofs. To his surprise, Shaxx lets the children cling to him as they walk, even opting to lift a couple to his shoulders where they grab onto his pauldrons and screech in glee. Most of the older folk seem to hang towards the side of the street as they walk, chattering amongst themselves, but the dead Ghost at the back of his helm confirms that they simply wait for them to pass before following them. A small crowd accompanies them as they make their way to the center of town. A few call out greetings to the Warlord, and Felwinter drinks in the sight of the most jovial town he’s personally ever visited.

When they get to a clearing, occupied only by a fountain in disrepair, Shaxx turns and sets the young ones down, and they dart back to their parents with giggles and more yelling. Shaxx glances at him, then turns to address the crowd—about the whole town at this point—with his booming voice.

“Good afternoon,” he starts, and he gets a few greetings in return, “Afraid I’m not here with the best of news.” The crowd sobers noticeably, and Felwinter feels himself straightening up without thinking as Shaxx continues, “There’s a big storm heading this way, and it’ll be here before the end of tomorrow. I know we’ve been doing great work with the rebuilding efforts,” he nods at a few people Felwinter faintly recognizes as the stone workers and smiths of the town, “But this is a real hammer of a blizzard. I’m not sure how safe everyone will be with the state of things now.”

A few people dare to murmur in the crowd, a few worried glances are exchanged among family and friends, and Shaxx clears his throat, “My friend here,” he motions to Felwinter, and, feeling rather put upon, he nods to the crowd, “And I, we would like to invite everyone to stay with us, up within the castle’s walls. It may be a tight fit but,” he glances back at Felwinter again, almost as if he’s looking for reassurance, “We believe we could make it work. Whoever is interested, bring what supplies you can--and any valuables you don’t want to lose—up to the gates by tomorrow evening. We’ll be waiting there for you. Any questions?”

The crowd at large goes silent for a long moment, and Felwinter continues to be perhaps a little amazed at how easily they heed Shaxx’s words. A lone figure steps forward, an older looking man with long hair tied back, “M’Lord, we couldn’t ask that of you, after all you’ve done for us.”

Shaxx looks at Felwinter, and he can just hear the “See?” the Warlord is thinking before he addresses the man, “You are not asking me for this. I am offering it. And,” he raises his voice again, so that the full crowd might hear him, “Nobody is _expected_ to come. You are welcome to stay in your homes if you so choose.”

The man bows his head to Shaxx, and Felwinter holds in a scoff.

_Looks like he’s respected as a ruler_ , Felspring interjects, sounding rather amused, _as much as he probably wishes that weren’t the case_.

“And who’s your, uh, ‘friend’?” calls out a youth, seemingly old enough to be brave and yet also young enough for an adult nearby to scold him quietly for asking.

Shaxx nods towards him, an invitation, and Felwinter braces himself before he speaks, the crowd going quiet again to hear him, “My name is Felwinter,” he tells the youth, looking towards him. A few whispers wriggle through the mass, and he presses on, “I am a guest of Shaxx’s for the winter. We are discussing…” he glances at Shaxx, who just makes a ‘go on’ sort of gesture, “Plans, for the future.”

“Iron Lord Felwinter is a trusted ally of mine,” Shaxx says, walking forward, and any remaining murmurs still immediately, “As such, I expect those of you who do come to stay with us to treat him as you’d treat me.”

Felwinter feels warmth bloom treacherously from his core for some strange reason, and he must kick his fans up a few notches to compensate. Felspring snickers at him, the little pest.

Nobody else seems to feel the need to speak up, and so Shaxx claps his hands together, “Alright, then. I’ll be seeing at least a few of you tomorrow, then, I believe. Stay strong and stay sharp.” And with that, the crowd starts to disperse. A gaggle of children come tumbling towards them before they can start to head back the way they came, pleading with Shaxx to be carried, to be told a story, to be shown a trick. One even drifts over to Felwinter, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Can you do tricks like Shaxx can?” they ask, and Felwinter peeks over his shoulder to see Shaxx making sparks dance harmlessly across his hands to the delight of the children around him.

Not to be outdone so easily, Felwinter nods and settles to a knee in front of the child, summoning a flicker of flame in his palm. “Careful,” he warns them when they reach out to touch it, “It’s still fire, it can still burn you.”

“But not you, right?” they ask, pulling their impetuous hand away to rub at their face instead, “Mister, you talk kinda funny.” Before Felwinter can muster up any offense they tug at his robes and point at Shaxx, “But if Lord Shaxx likes you, that means you’re good.”

“Does it now?” he murmurs, and then the child’s caretakers call for them. They give Felwinter and his solitary flame one more awed look before running off, and Felwinter stands up, banishing the fire and brushing dust from his cloak.

“Having fun?” Shaxx rumbles from right behind him, and Felwinter must take a moment longer than he’d like to squash the urge to elbow the Titan in the gut. When he does turn to chide Shaxx, he can practically feel the smirk on the other’s face, though all he can see is his gaudy helmet.

“One of the children wanted to see a ‘trick’,” he supplies, noticing how close they’re standing and actively standing his ground despite a strong urge to step away.

“They’re easily entertained,” Shaxx hums, and his fingers catch along the side of his cloak, “Pity about your fancy cloak, though.”

Felwinter shoots him a _look_ and spares a sigh for the discoloration along the edge of the thick fabric, from when he’d kneeled, tucking his hands back into the folds, “It can be cleaned.”

They start making their way back through town, and several people try to stop to offer Shaxx various…things—a live chicken, a basket of scavenged parts, an heirloom chair—all of which are warmly and steadfastly refused.

“This happens every time you venture down here?” Felwinter asks as they walk away from an older woman who had _insisted_ that Shaxx should take her favorite cooking pot, “They revere you almost as a king.”

Shaxx stiffens at that, then heaves a sigh that seems to move his whole body, “Yes. But they don’t think of me as a king. At least, they shouldn’t. I’ve asked them not to.”

“Hmm,” Felwinter offers in return, finding himself distantly amused. A few women standing near the outskirts of town look at the pair of them and exchange wry looks before speaking excitedly about whatever it is they talk about around here. Felwinter determinedly does not turn to acknowledge them.

“Did you manage to get any dirt in your joints?” Shaxx shifts topics quickly, leaving Felwinter wondering what exactly he said to provoke him, “I always end up a mess after spending time with the children.”

“No, I wasn’t rolling around with them like you were,” Felwinter suppresses a snort at the earlier antics. They walk in silence for a few moments, coming up on the castle’s walls.

“I suppose not.” Shaxx rubs the back of his neck. They climb the last few stairs that lead to the castle’s entrance, and Felwinter is familiar with this tone and posture, bashful, “I was going to head to the bath, myself, if you had nothing else to attend to…”

It takes Felwinter a long moment to recognize Shaxx’s phrasing not as a statement but as an _invitation_ , and he physically feels many non-essential functions stall for an even longer moment. Shaxx stands there at the entryway, looking almost fidgety, flighty. Just before he’s about to turn, Felwinter whips his hand out, grasping Shaxx’s arm in a way he hopes isn’t painful, “Wait.”

Shaxx, surprisingly, complies. He glances down at Felwinter’s hand, then back at his helm.

“I,” Felwinter tries, and his voice comes out the tiniest bit uneven. He feels…strange, like the first time he tried to use a form of Light that wasn’t Solar, walking out into nothingness until he was sure the Void below was the only thing supporting him. “I will meet you there,” he decides on, and he can feel his fans whirring, wondering gingerly if Shaxx can hear them as he turns away and releases his hold on the other’s arm.

As soon as he returns to his room, Felspring accosts him, spinning around his head, “Really, Felwinter? Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” he says, thinking about a thousand variable in advance, his mind a flurry of what-ifs and why-nots, “No? Both.”

“Hold still a second,” she says, and he realizes he’d started pacing without noticing, again. “I know we agreed that it would be in our best interests to ‘play nice’, but this is going a little further than that.” She floats down to eye level and he takes his helm off, trying to focus on the tactile sensation instead of the mess of threads that is his mind currently. His fingers gripping the sides of the helmet. The chill of his room without his Light or a lantern in use to keep the cold at bay. The weight of his shoulders. The uneasiness that fizzes through his frame.

“It is,” he agrees, after a moment of just squeezing his helm to ground himself, “It’s quite a bit further than that.”

“And you’re alright with that?” Felspring asks, assessing him with not a hint of snark in her tone for once, “You’re okay with not knowing exactly what to expect?”

He runs through the scenario in his head a few times for good measure. Three main outcomes trickle through the threads.

Option One: Shaxx is merely being friendly, and this invitation is a show of good will, of camaraderie. Felwinter will go down to the baths, and they will simply talk as they usually do in the library. No differences except the location. They will sit and talk and tomorrow they will both welcome people from the town seeking shelter from the storm.

Option Two: Shaxx is planning to kill him, and has been for a long time, perhaps even before he arrived. He’s using this opportunity to lure Felwinter into a false sense of security so he can kill him and then Felspring in one fell swoop. Clean. Simple. By the time the townsfolk arrive tomorrow, Shaxx will have cleaned his hands of the whole business and will have a few more weeks under cover of the storm to prepare before the Iron Lords arrive to lay siege to his domain in retribution. Chances of survival...hard to calculate.

Option Three: Shaxx is looking for…something else. Perhaps companionship, or a good lay, and this is his way of asking if Felwinter is also open to the possibility. Felwinter will go down to the baths and…here is where his hypotheticals get murky. This is the outcome with the most risk for both parties involved. Something will happen, if this is the truth, but he is distinctly unsure of _what_.

“Nervous?” Felspring asks, still studying him, and he offers his palm for her to rest upon for a moment, “I mean, I don’t have to ask. It’s written all over your face. Just kidding,” she bumps his hand affectionately, and he huffs a wave of static at her, “It _is_ all over your mind, though. Just…be careful.”

“I’ll have my knife,” he replies, tapping it where it rests on his outer strut.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she shakes herself at him, spines spinning, before she continues, softer, “I’m…glad you’re thinking about yourself, at least a little.”

He isn’t sure what to say to that, isn’t sure how he feels, but she knows. She has always known.

By the time he reaches the bath, Shaxx has already settled, seated at the end of the wide pool where he sat before, a while ago now. He’s reading from yet another weathered book when Felwinter enters, and he is, surprisingly, without his helmet.

_Probably not Option Two, then_ , Felspring notes, _no weapons in sight, either, except for himself._

Felwinter has her transmat off his cloak for safekeeping, noting that he really will have to wash it later, and he approaches the edge of the water, still in his helmet, robes, and boots.

Shaxx looks up from his book and surprise is visible in his expression, in the set of his jaw, “Ah, for a moment there, I’d thought I was being stood up,” and the words aren’t without mirth.

“I had some things to take care of,” Felwinter replies, still standing at the edge of the basin. Steam is still curling off the surface of the water, so he can’t have kept Shaxx waiting too long.

“Fair enough,” Shaxx concedes with a nod, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

Felwinter finds himself staring—at his face, the column of his neck, the gentle rise and fall of his chest--and some corner of his mind notes that he’s staring because he’s _interested_ in what he sees.

“I have to say though,” Shaxx says, eyeing Felwinter’s form from across the water, setting his book aside, nice and dry, “That’s quite a lot of layers to come here in.”

Felwinter feels suddenly much warmer than when he’d first stepped into the well-lit space, even without his cloak. He tilts his head at the Warlord, “Is it? I wasn’t going to walk down here, in the cold, with nothing on.”

That earns him a bark of laughter, and Shaxx shakes his head at him, “I suppose that’d be foolhardy, yes. But now…” and Shaxx’s eyes flick back to him, somehow sharper, not quite a demand.

Felwinter allows himself a snort, artificial, as he seats himself at the edge of the tub, starting to work off the straps of his boots, then his helmet. He’s aware of Shaxx’s scrutiny the whole time, and while he isn’t necessarily making a show out of it, it makes him think of how Timur always thought he was being _charming_ with all his lollygagging and showboating and lingering looks before they even started touching one another. Utterly ridiculous. There’s nothing inherently enthralling about the act of disrobing. It’s a normal, everyday thing to do, or so he tells himself as he works off his helmet. This could be normal.

When he sets his helmet aside, he glances up, and Shaxx is still seated, but his posture has changed somewhat. He leans further forward, one arm resting on the edge of the basin with his chin propped up on that fist. Felwinter realizes, with another rush of heat, that Shaxx isn’t looking at him just because he can, he’s looking because he apparently _wants_ to. He dims the lights that line his neck and mouth, hyperaware of how much focus it takes to control them and how little he’s recently practiced.

“I’ll be honest,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter wonders briefly if he’s ever not, “I wasn’t sure if this was something you’d agree to. Took a bit of a chance, there.”

Felwinter pauses in the middle of pulling his robes over his head, arms still in his sleeves, considering, “And what do you think I agreed to, I wonder?”

The Warlord gazes at him from across the water, contemplative, a glint of something like hunger in his eyes. When he speaks, it’s much lower than before, tinged with a tone Felwinter doesn’t think he’s heard from him before, almost dark. “Just sharing a bath with me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Felwinter shrugs out of the remaining fabric of his robes and folds them neatly, setting them atop his boots and starting to work on the laces of his trousers. When he glances sideways at Shaxx, he’s looking away, and it manages to make him huff out half a laugh at the show of backwards chivalry. He takes his time sliding off the last of his clothes, undersuit and trousers also placed with tidiness, though it’s less for show and more to ground himself. His mind feels fuzzy and clear all at once, like the steam that dissipates seconds after it comes into existence. He tells himself he isn’t expecting anything, that perhaps this really was just an invitation to bathe, the natural progression of their rapport. It helps a little.

There’s a railing on the few steps that lead down into the bath itself, and Felwinter rests his hand on it as he steps down into the water. Mellow warmth seeps into him as he ambles over to take a seat next to Shaxx, resting on one of the carved protrusions cut into the stone of the pool. This close, he can feel the moment Shaxx stops holding his breath, water pulsing outwards as his chest falls and rises.

“I also wasn’t sure,” Shaxx says, and Felwinter almost feels it rumble through his own chest, “If you could even physically be in water like this.”

Felwinter eases back against the wall of the basin, letting his head rest on the edge. Shaxx’s eyes dart along the wiring that curves down his neck and into his shoulders, then down, down, and Felwinter weaves his fingers together, resting his hands against his torso, feeling oddly self-satisfied.

“If you recall,” Felwinter murmurs, “I said I can eat, and drink, among several other things. You never asked for clarification.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” Shaxx responds in kind, leaning back, himself, “If _you_ recall, I’ve only met one other person like you, and this wasn’t something that came up, either.”

Felspring buzzes in scrutiny in the back of his head, and he agrees something is…odd about how Shaxx talks about this other supposed Exo. “It doesn’t seem like you talked about much at all with them,” he notes, eyes drifting from the ceiling back to the Warlord, “You really must not have spent much time with them.”

This seems to provoke _something_ in Shaxx, and it flickers right across his face before Shaxx can seemingly catch it. Discomfort, perhaps? Shame? Guilt?

“No, we…” he clears his throat and his eyes sink to the water, “We spent a night together. There wasn’t much talking involved beyond the necessary. I woke up with a knife in my side and a gun in my face.” He pauses and shifts his weight, and Felwinter thinks more of ‘discomfort’, “So, no. Not much time at all.”

Felwinter watches Shaxx watch him for a reaction, as if the Titan expected him to react strongly. Felspring snorts in his head, and not at him for once. A marvel.

“Ah,” he says, reclining once again, guessing that hadn’t ended well for this Exo in the past, “Unfortunate. I hope the night was at least enjoyable.”

Shaxx is quiet for a moment, and it almost seems like all the air in the room has gone still. It’s long enough that Felwinter spares a moment to wonder if his words were misplaced, and then Shaxx laughs, low and throaty, turning to look at him, “Alright, I take it back. I’ve never met another person like _you_.”

Somehow, it feels like Shaxx has gotten closer to him, the space between them just the slightest bit less. The slight glint of hunger in the Titan’s eyes seems more focused, more encompassing now, and some signal in his mind springs to life with a call of something like ‘danger’. He has enough sense to quietly shut it off.

“I can guarantee you haven’t,” he replies, choosing not to move away.

“Earlier, in the town,” Shaxx says, like he hasn’t been eyeing what’s visible of Felwinter’s frame with something like appreciation, or anticipation, “When you spoke to the people, it sounded like something you’ve done before. Lead a crowd. Help people.”

Felwinter taps his chin in a show of rumination, “I suppose I have.”

Shaxx creeps closer, and Felwinter would laugh at his poor attempts to hide it if he were sure of the Warlord’s intent, “Rumor has it you conquered a whole mountain and killed almost anyone who crossed your borders, at least until you joined up with the Iron Lords.”

“Rumors say many things about me,” Felwinter returns, not shifting his body in any indication that he notices Shaxx’s slow, steady encroachment, “Some are true, others are not.”

The Warlord is close enough now that it’s a wonder he hasn’t physically touched him. There’s no need for stealth at this point, with one of Shaxx’s hands scant inches away from his left shoulder, resting on the edge of the tub. “Rumor also has it that you are much harsher on defiant Warlords than your brethren,” Shaxx slowly stands, and if Felwinter wasn’t already looking up, he’d have to, now, “I wonder if that particular rumor is true.”

“That depends on who you ask,” he responds, as Shaxx’s other hand comes down on his other side, caging him against the warm stone of the basin. Felwinter doesn’t stand to match him, merely gazes evenly at the Warlord, head tipped back. This close, he can smell coffee and smoke and the faint whiff of static most Arc users tend to carry with them.

This close, he can feel and hear Shaxx’s breath just before he chuckles. “You’re wily. Tricky. Hard to pin down.” He leans in, slow, easy, and Felwinter feels each and every one of his fans working overtime, though he forces his face to remain impassive. “Nearly impossible to get a straight answer out of you, but I think,” Shaxx says, closer to eye level, and the hunger is there in full force, “That you’re playing the fool. You and I both know you’re too clever to not know what’s going on here.” He gestures between the two of them, fingers brushing against Felwinter’s chest, leaving phantom trails of heat in their wake. Felwinter's eyes linger on the movement of collarbone and muscle under his skin.

“Me? Play the fool?” he asks, with his best impression of Timur’s beguile. He notes that he should feel trapped, confined. He only feels powerful, with all Shaxx’s attention on him in this way. He dares to run his foot up the inside of Shaxx’s calf beneath the water, arms still crossed. The Warlord takes a deep slow breath in, and moves no further, though this close, Felwinter can see his pupils blown wide. The knife still hooked to his leg itches to be drawn, but he pushes the urge to pull it out down, far down.

“Maybe you’ve overestimated me, Shaxx,” he offers when he gets no verbal response.

“No,” Shaxx says, quiet as a thread and as loud as a tapestry. He comes closer yet, despite there being extraordinarily little distance left, until there’s barely an inch between their faces, “If anything, I’ve underestimated you.” Felwinter realizes the Titan is smiling, but there is truly little soft about the way Shaxx’s lips curl, “This _was_ an invitation to bathe. But,” his left hand drifts off the wall of the pool, slowly, as if he’s trying not to spook Felwinter with sudden movement, towards his face, “It could be something…else.”

Before Shaxx’s hand contacts the side of his jaw, or wherever it was heading, Felwinter’s hand is curled around Shaxx’s exposed throat.

The Warlord freezes as soon as he touches him, hand stilling in midair, eyes wide with shock before they narrow. Felwinter doesn’t squeeze or constrict, merely rests his hand there until Shaxx drops his hand fully, back to the edge of the basin. After a long moment of nothing but eye contact and Shaxx’s breathing under his hand, Felwinter slowly, carefully pushes his thumb down on Shaxx’s windpipe, gauging his reaction. Shaxx’s breath hitches before he expects it to, and—isn’t that interesting—his pupils dilate just slightly. Felwinter feels his own face rearrange itself into something resembling smugness. He holds for just a bit longer, testing how long Shaxx will bear it, and after a few long seconds, he pulls away. Despite having only a little pressure applied to his breathing, Shaxx gasps for air when Felwinter pulls his hand away, crossing his arms again.

“How _fascinating_ ,” he says slowly, aloud, as Shaxx gets his respiration under control again. Shaxx just looks at him, and while there’s still a hint of hunger there, there’s an element of revelation there now, too. “I will…consider your invitation,” he says, leaning back against the basin’s wall, “This first invitation was so…enlightening.”

“I—yes. Enlightening,” Shaxx manages, still sounding breathless. Felwinter feels more than sees him move away, looking up at the ceiling once again. There’s a mural painted there, with little cherubs and clouds. How gauche.

When Felwinter chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, Shaxx’s back is to him as he climbs out of the pool, the musculature of his back on full display. He allows himself a good once-over as Shaxx shuffles over to his pile of belongings before he lets his head loll back again. There’s a rustle of fabric, and Shaxx clears his throat, “I will…see you tomorrow morning.”

“You will,” Felwinter says, and it feels more like a promise than ever before.


	5. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [...Felwinter fixes his gaze at the middle of Shaxx’s helmet, tilting his head in query, “Can I help you with something?”  
> “Crafty. Sly,” Shaxx says eventually, his low tone a rumble of thunder in such close quarters, “I’d been planning on letting them see me lose so they’d see us more as equals, but you,” he prods Felwinter’s chest with one finger, and it doesn’t leave, “You made that almost too easy. You’ve either been holding back in our daily fights, or you just like being in front of a crowd.”]
> 
> An ode to patience.

On the first day, a few dozen people from the town below meet the two Lords at the gates to the castle, afternoon sunlight dwindling over their heads as the storm marches closer. The clouds darken the horizon and Felwinter’s internal systems monitor the quickly-changing air pressure closely.

Shaxx stands on one side of the gate, taking note of everyone who has decided to hunker down within the castle’s somewhat sturdier walls, and Felwinter on the other, directing them to where Shaxx had decided to place them. More than once, he has to turn the map Shaxx had drawn this way and that, having a bit of difficulty deciphering the scrawl of the Warlord’s handwriting. Either none of the townspeople notice, or they’re either too polite to mention their Lord’s lack of mapmaking prowess. Once there are no more heads waiting to be counted or guided, they both head into the main hall.

It occurs to Felwinter that they’re walking side by side for once, instead of one following the other. Their daily fight earlier that morning had been much like the ones preceding it, but now the weight of Shaxx’s stare makes him feel…vigorous, instead of lost. Nothing had been said about the night before, by either of them, and it had only occurred to him after he’d already settled for the night that he’d inadvertently added suspense to Shaxx’s invitation in the face of a few days spent sharing space with numerous other people.

Felspring had outright cackled at him, of course, when he’d realized what he’d done and succumbed to the urge to put his face in his hands in the safety of his own quarters, sinking back against the bed with a mournful groan he’d never admit to making.

When they get to the hall, several of the people have already offloaded their belongings in their designated quarters and are starting to prepare food in the kitchens just a room over. By the wonderous looks some of them are casting about the warmly-lit space, Felwinter gathers that most of them have never been inside the castle’s inner walls. Shaxx gets flagged down by a few of the older people as soon as they catch sight of the Lords, and the Warlord claps him on the shoulder, once, before turning to talk to them about the supplies.

He watches Shaxx’s back until someone nearby stifles a laugh with a cough, and Felwinter turns away to stride towards the kitchen with purpose, under the guise of using his Light to help warm the old stoves.

Supper is quiet, but not somber. One of the women keeps trying to urge Shaxx to join them, but he politely, repeatedly refuses. Felwinter watches from a corner, cleaning his gun to keep his hands busy, as Shaxx extricates himself from their offers with practiced ease.

“Save your food for those who need it,” Shaxx eventually insists from one of the windows, where he’d turned away to the view of rushing snowflakes, “We will all need our strength.”

“O-of course, m’lord,” she responds, tone suffused with respect as she returns her attention to collecting empty dishes.

Felwinter faintly wonders, from the other side of the room, where he’s posted up by the door as a ‘watch’, if the townsfolk would regard Shaxx with such awe if they knew he read romantic poetry in his free time. Shaxx seems to meet his gaze from across the hall, and he nods at Felwinter before suggesting to the room that perhaps its time to retire for the evening after everyone cleans up.

Felwinter finds himself feeling something like pride that _he_ knows about Shaxx’s favorite literature. Then, he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge said unruly feeling and sets out to patrol the building.

On the second day, the storm fully arrives, angry. It expresses itself through howling wind and a sharp chill that jabs through even the thick stone of the walls, like a needle through loose cloth. Felwinter thinks of the wolves of the observatory grounds who would poke their freezing noses into his cloak, his hands, looking for scraps of food.

Shaxx passes him in a hallway as he heads towards the courtyard, and while it is plenty wide enough for both to walk through, they both ease to a stop. Shaxx’s gaze feels appraising through the helmet that hasn’t come off since the townspeople arrived. Felwinter isn’t sure what his own gaze tells the Warlord, but after a long moment, Shaxx nods at him, says “Morning,” and starts moving again, so he does the same.

“I haven’t forgotten about our bout,” Shaxx calls over his shoulder, voice a touch hoarser this morning, “I’ll be down there in a bit.”

Felwinter searches for something clever to respond with, but his head is stuck on the undertone, familiar, and the way the soft snow-shade light catches the white parts of Shaxx’s armor. He can feel Felspring suppressing a laugh as he responds, “Alright,” and continues on his way at a completely normal pace before he starts thinking about how Shaxx’s voice might sound in other situations.  
  


Their match draws a little bit of a crowd—the early risers hear the clangor of fighting and assume the worst, bursting into the courtyard with worn guns and makeshift projectiles.

“Hold!” Shaxx calls, his hands out, one towards Felwinter and one towards the townspeople, “There is no danger. We’re simply…sparring.”

Felwinter has to suppress a snort at that, but he plays along, dropping the defensive stance he’d taken in response to Shaxx’s brutal advance, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms in a way he hopes comes off as casual. He can still feel the pseudo-adrenaline coursing through him, though he knows logically he doesn’t produce the chemical naturally. He chalks it up to the fight itself, and not the keen way Shaxx had been advancing on him, trying to grapple him.

The townsfolk slowly back off once they realize they’re not _actually_ trying to tear each other apart, and the guns that had been aimed at him, specifically, lower as well. There are a few murmured apologies and most of the people shuffle back inside the hallway. A few remain though, and Felwinter gathers from Shaxx’s excited conversation with them that they wish to watch. How strange.

“Might show some of us less-experienced folk something new, yeah?” says one of the older-looking people, nudging a rather grumpy-looking young person, who shrugs their hand off quickly.

Shaxx turns to him with a request in his posture, and Felwinter fabricates a sigh, regarding the (very fragile) civilians, “Very well. No Light, no weapons.”

“Excellent,” Shaxx responds, clapping his hands together, and Felwinter thinks he looks rather eager for someone who’s won all their previous fights on Light-made brute force alone. He feels his mouth curl into a grim grin underneath the helm.

They designate temporary boundaries in the courtyard, and one person volunteers to give them a signal. Shaxx even makes a grand show of taking off most of his armor--though the helmet remains--like it’s some act of chivalry. Felwinter finds himself wishing he could truly roll his eyes, but he follows suit, and the two of them stand a few feet apart, waiting for the call to start, snow swirling about and wind whipping past.

_He doesn’t know_ , Felspring says, mischief, even glee coloring her tone, _He has no idea!_

**He doesn’t** , Felwinter responds, rifling through his hand-to-hand techniques in his mind, and they’re off.

(Shaxx may not who or what he is, truly, but Felwinter knows himself, often against his own will. Exo-born, but Warmind-made. He knows exactly the amount of force he can apply before something breaks. He knows precisely how fast his frame was designed to move. He carries knowledge—both blessing and burden.)

The call comes and goes, and Felwinter closes the gap in what must look like a flash to the Lightless humans, barely visible, especially through the ice and wind. His metrics tell him he’s moving much faster than he needs to, really, but now that there’s an audience, why not use a little flair?

Shaxx, even with his Light-enhanced senses, barely has time to react before Felwinter is on him in a flutter of robes, sweeping his feet out from under him. He hits the ground with a satisfying _thud_ and Felwinter hears several people in the crowd gasp as Shaxx does the same, for vastly different reasons.

Knowing better than to give him time to recover, Felwinter presses on, aiming a solid kick at Shaxx’s midsection, going for just enough force to shove him out of the makeshift ring. Shaxx rolls out of the way just in time, unfortunately, but he’s still a bit winded as he tries to get to a knee, grabbing at Felwinter’s foot in a hasty attempt to even the odds.

Felwinter outright scoffs at him, kicking Shaxx’s foot in reflex with maybe a bit too much force—he hears and _feels_ several bones in Shaxx’s hand snap on impact. Shaxx doesn’t so much as flinch, to his credit, simply trying to get back to his feet again, but his hand hangs limp now. The people to the side make collective sounds of dismay, and Felwinter decides it’s best to end things quickly, before it gets _too_ grisly.

Just as Shaxx manages to get to his feet, Felwinter goes in with his hands, two open palmed hits to Shaxx’s solar plexus and the center of his ribcage to throw him further off-balance, and, when he reels for a big punch in Felwinter’s general direction, Felwinter guides his misled momentum, using his hands to leverage his considerable weight against him.

Shaxx lands shoulder first neatly outside the lines they’d drawn in the dirt, and with a healthy amount of hesitation, the volunteer raises his hand on Felwinter’s side, “A-a win for Lord Felwinter.” There’s a pregnant pause, and then a smattering of applause.

Felwinter gives them a nod, then offers a hand to Shaxx, who is slowly rising from the ground with a groan. The Warlord peers upwards and looks at him for a long moment, nursing his hand, before reaching back with his uninjured one, grasping it firmly as he pulls himself up.

“Good fight,” Felwinter says, with no small amount of smugness, and Shaxx just grunts at him, still eyeing his hand. “Should I place a healing rift?” he asks, and after a moment of looking over the townspeople still watching them, muttering amongst themselves, Shaxx nods. Felwinter ducks to draw a circle into the earth, infused with Light, and they both stand in it for a few moments, warming their frames as Shaxx’s bones audibly re-align themselves.

Shaxx flexes his fingers a few times, as if testing the viability of Felwinter’s Light before he speaks again, “Thank you.” His gaze lingers on Felwinter for a moment, and there’s a tinge of that _hunger_ in his posture, or perhaps it’s simply banal fury. Then, he turns to address the crowd, tone jovial, “Well, there’s as good of an example as you’ll ever get, surely.” There are a few laughs from the dozen or so people there, and the tenseness in their shoulders lessens visibly. “This is why it’s good to have friends,” Shaxx continues, gesturing to Felwinter with his newly-healed hand, “You can always learn something new from one another. You can always better each other. Now, better get going or you’ll miss breakfast.”

As the people start trickling back inside, Felwinter busies himself with dispelling the rift with one clean motion, still feeling rather smug and a little breathless. Peculiar.

He hears Shaxx approach again, and he stands upright to reply to whatever ridiculous thing Shaxx might have to say, but instead of stopping a respectable distance away, the Warlord advances on him until his back is pressed up against the wall of the courtyard, the stone behind him chilling his spine. He wills his hands to stay at his sides instead of fighting, running, fleeing like his body screams at him to.

A peek around Shaxx’s shoulder, still plenty bulky without the fur and armor, shows that all the people have gone back inside, so Felwinter fixes his gaze at the middle of Shaxx’s helmet, tilting his head in query, “Can I help you with something?”

“Crafty. Sly,” Shaxx says eventually, his low tone a rumble of thunder in such close quarters, “I’d been planning on letting them see me lose so they’d see us more as equals, but you,” he prods Felwinter’s chest with one finger, and it doesn’t leave, “ _You_ made that almost too easy. You’ve either been holding back in our daily fights, or you just like being in front of a crowd.”

“Do you really think either of those is true?” Felwinter asks, unmoving for the moment, and Shaxx’s hand remains, though the touch goes softer, fingers dragging down his chest. He feels his fans kick up a notch in protest, or perhaps in encouragement, “Perhaps I just got lucky this time. Perhaps you were ‘too far into your own head.’” He feels overly warm, still, even with his internal processors devoting resources to just staying cool, even with the snow still falling on them and around them. The flakes are melting as soon as they get near his frame.

“You made me look like an utter _fool_.” For a moment, Felwinter mistakes Shaxx’s growl for anger, as he gets even further into his space, pressing him up against the wall even further, hand moving to his shoulder to keep him from moving without a good amount of effort. Their helmets and legs are almost touching when Shaxx hisses, “And it was _incredible._ You made that look effortless.” The Titan presses his fingers into his shoulder plating and a different sort of chill rushes through him, “What are you playing at?”

It takes Felwinter longer than he’d admit to interpret Shaxx’s tone and actions as banter rather than honest rage, and he gives them both a moment’s space to think before reaching up to trace the side of Shaxx’s gaudy helm with one finger. “I’m not ‘playing’ at anything,” he replies, “Are you?”

Felspring outright shrieks over the neurolink.

Shaxx lets go of a slow, heady breath, and Felwinter almost feels like he’s inhaling fumes, though he knows logically he cannot. “Are you sure you’re an Iron Lord?” Shaxx asks, bracing himself against the wall with his other hand, right next to Felwinter’s head, and he almost scoffs at the Warlord before he continues, “You seem more like a fox than a wolf to me.”

Felwinter taps the side of Shaxx’s helm with one pointed finger before tracing around the edge of it, down towards his chin, “Is that so? Well,” he lets his hand drop back to the wall, “I can be many things, depending on the situation.” He snakes one foot out to primly nudge one of Shaxx’s, and the Warlord has to lean forward further to keep his balance, his head ending up right next to Felwinter’s instead of in front of it.

“Definitely a fox,” Shaxx murmurs, so close to him that he can almost feel his voice across his collar more than he hears it. The hand that was on his shoulder moves back to his chest, pressing there for a moment--as if he’s searching for something, a heart, a soul, perhaps--before he pulls away, standing back upright. Felwinter feels the loss of his heat immediately, the wind picking up almost on cue. “A particularly wily fox, at that. You’ll be a fun one to pin down.” Shaxx adds, and there’s a smirk in his tone as he turns to retrieve his armor.

There’s a pause during which Felwinter considers the Warlord’s words and the context. Then, Felwinter can’t help but laugh—genuinely, loudly--a rare occurrence. He nearly doubles over at the force it hits him with as he walks back to his own armor, trying to piece himself back together. He can’t remember the last time he’d laughed in earnest. Maybe over a particularly bad pun by Skorri? He’d snorted at the last awful line Timur had tried to use on him, perhaps. This, however, is absolutely, unavoidably hilarious. Felspring apparently agrees if her giggling is any clue. He shakes his head as he quickly readjusts the straps and fastenings of his arm guards, and he keeps trying to wrangle his humor as he finishes putting on the rest of his gear.

Shaxx stares at him from his pile of discarded armor, unmoving, and while Felwinter isn’t sure what expression he’s wearing behind that ugly horned thing, he’s sure it’s at least some part confused, perhaps bewildered. There’s an unanswered question in his shoulders as Felwinter passes him, spending his steps back to the archway of the courtyard trying to reign in the last of his jest.

“And just what makes you think,” he remarks, once he’s recovered, resting a hand on the archway and peering back at Shaxx from the shelter of the stone, “That you’ll be the one doing the pinning?”

He heads down the hallway, not turning back to see Shaxx’s reaction, but by the spluttering noise the Warlord makes, his comment had the intended effect.

On the third day, glass shatters.

The grandiose window in the main hall, where everyone has been having meals or spending most of their time awake, breaks into many, many pieces during dinner with a crackle and a bang. Fortunately, none of the civilians are near it when it shatters, but several people shout in alarm when it happens. It’s fairly apparent to Felwinter that even the sharp, fierce winds outside couldn’t have done that alone. He’s on his feet before the shards have settled, Felspring popping out to give the broken pane a quick scan. Shaxx is next to him in the next moment, having risen from his seat near a few of the elders, addressing Felspring, “What’s the verdict?”

There’s a pause during which Felspring gives Felwinter a _look_ , and he returns it, fully surprised that Shaxx is just…talking to _his_ Ghost, trusting her for information. “…It definitely wasn’t just wind, or snow. I’m getting faint Arc searing around the edges of some of the shards, explosive in nature.”

Shaxx’s gun is out of its holster and in his hands before she finishes, and he shakes his head, “Fallen. Should’ve cut back their numbers before we hunkered down here. We’ll be sitting ducks if I don’t take care of them now.”

“I?” asks Felwinter, and Felspring makes herself scarce, “You’re planning on going out there alone? That is,” he racks his mind for the best word, arriving on, “Foolish, at best. Visibility is next to nothing, and you’ll need to conserve Light to keep your body temperature up, or you will freeze.”

“Yes, _I_ ,” Shaxx says, already moving to go, trying to step around Felwinter. He doesn’t let him, stepping right back into his path. Shaxx shakes his head at him, firm, “I know this area better than you, and I have a hunch about where they’ve set up shop. If you go, you’ll face the same problems, _and_ you don’t know the terrain as well.”

Felwinter reaches out to grab at his arm when Shaxx tries to go again, “Then we will both go, that is the most efficient way to deal with the—”

“Felwinter,” Shaxx cuts him off, stern, and he feels rage curdle in his frame, tamping down the swell of irritation that rises in him, “Efficient, maybe. Safe, no. Leaving the people here, by themselves, defeats the whole purpose of going out to get rid of the damn Fallen. I am _trusting you_ to stay with them and keep them safe.”

Felwinter becomes rapidly aware that everyone else in the room is staring at them as they ‘discuss’, eyes darting rapidly between the two Lords. He resists the odd urge to clear his throat, removing his hand from Shaxx’s arm, “…Very well. I’d say don’t do anything reckless, but I don’t think you’ll heed that.”

Shaxx nods at him, finally moving past him to the massive door and pulling it open with one arm. He pauses in the doorway, seemingly mulling something over before he calls over his shoulder, tone dry, “Don’t worry about me too much.”

Then, Shaxx steps out into the grueling storm and the door closes behind him, adamant.

Felwinter wills himself to not worry at all.

It does not immediately work, to his chagrin, so he turns to look at the gathered people. Many are shivering now that the wind is streaming right through the once-proud window frame, which he knows he is not equipped to fix currently. A few are looking at him like they expect him to say something, do something. He suppresses a sigh and then beckons to the assembly, “Alright. Gather around.”

He summons a Solar sword and thrusts it into the ground in front of him, and the Light pools from it in a pulse, extending quite a few feet from the center. A few people gasp, and he can see a few wide-eyed expressions in his peripheral. “Come, stand close,” he urges, keeping his hands on the hilt to help regulate the flow of Light, “It will keep you safe, and more pressingly, warm.”

With varying degrees of trepidation, people approach, some with palpable relief once they enter the well. Eventually, they all gather within the circle, and Felwinter can physically feel the life force of each person nearby like a solid, present weight on his Light.

He realizes, distantly, that this probably the largest amount of people he’s ever had in one of his wells, and he reasserts his command over the Light, willing himself to maintain the vigil until either Shaxx comes back or the storm passes.

Time passes. He’s keeping track, but his focus lies on the people, on each individual heartbeat he can feel through their connection to his Light. Eventually, he urges them to try to get some rest, and a few of them leave to retrieve bedrolls, blankets, whatever they can manage. His Light may warm them, but it won’t save their joints from the stone floor. He briefly considers relocating to the area where Shaxx had discovered the Warmind bunker, but dismisses the notion quickly when a few children cling to his cloak, asking if he has any good stories because Shaxx _always_ tells them stories when he comes to visit.

With Felspring’s assistance, he references a pre-Golden age fable about a rabbit, reciting as steadily as he can manage while still funneling Light through the glowing sword until they slip into slumber. A few people quietly volunteer to take the first watch of the night, settling at the far edges of his well, and he steels himself for a long, cold vigil.

Time passes, still.

The watch shift changes once twice, and still there is no sign of Warlord nor Fallen. He supposes that’s a good thing, but it doesn’t feel like a good thing. He keeps his focus on the sword, on vigilance. He demands that his stream of conscious not drift.

It’s not until approximately ten hours, thirty-two minutes, and eighteen seconds since he left that Shaxx returns, shouldering open the massive door and nudging it closed behind him with his foot. Felwinter lowers his shotgun once he realizes, somewhat groggily, that it’s the Warlord and not some particularly gaudy Fallen Captain here to wreak havoc. One hand remains on his Dawnblade, still planted in the stone floor, his Light down to a slow, steady trickle after hours of use. The well still remains, but it is much dimmer than he’d thought it was.

The few people awake at this early hour, mostly the last watch shift, all flock to Shaxx immediately, mindful of their sleeping compatriots still laying in Felwinter’s Light, whispering concerns or accolades or—honestly, Felwinter doesn’t care particularly what is they’re going on about. He’s grappling with a massive surge of _relief_ that threatens to make him sag against his sword. He physically feels Felspring scoff at him, like pebbles rolling down a hill.

Shaxx manages to kindly dislodge the people surrounding him, heading straight for Felwinter, holstering his gun. Felwinter feels Shaxx’s Light as soon as he sets foot in the well, bright and strong and almost oversaturating. He comes right up to Felwinter, stepping carefully around sleeping bodies, and when he speaks, his voice is raspy from disuse, but genuine, “I see you’ve managed to hold things down here. You have my thanks.”

“I managed,” he replies, and he hears hoarseness in his own voice, a click in his modulator, unusual, “The Fallen, they are--?”

“Taken care of, for now,” Shaxx nods, and Felwinter feels a second, easier flicker of solace, looking hazily around at the people around them, “I’ll have to be more diligent on my patrols after this blows over, but I don’t believe they’ll be coming anywhere near here anytime soon.”

“That’s…good,” Felwinter says, but he is quickly realizing something feels… _off_. His hold on his Light falters, and the sword in his hand dims and then dematerializes. He suddenly feels cold, too cold, and without the blade to lean on, he stumbles forward. Felspring goes into a slight panic in his head, but she sounds almost far away, somehow, like static.

A pair of strong, warm hands steadies him, one on his shoulder and one on his side, and still the sudden chill rushing through him does not diminish. “Easy there,” Shaxx says, sounding…concerned? “You…you weren’t sustaining that massive rift the entire time I was gone, were you?”

“Not a rift,” Felwinter mutters against Shaxx’s collar, where his head had come to rest. He hasn’t managed to fully lift it yet; for some reason all of his limbs and joints feel lead-like, too heavy, but he keeps talking to try to save face, “It’s a well. And it wasn’t the entire time.”

He hears someone nearby who isn’t a nearly seven-foot-tall Warlord snort and he can’t even turn his head to look at them with disdain. Shaxx’s hands go from just supporting his weight to holding him upright fully, and he sighs with an undertone Felwinter can’t quite place, “And you told _me_ not to do anything reckless. Well,” he pauses as Felwinter finally manages to lift his head upright, his own hands on the Warlord’s arm and chest, “You gave them a good night’s rest, and that’s…more than I could’ve asked for.”

Felwinter tries to say, “It’s nothing,” but it comes out nearly unintelligible with the point of his helm resting on Shaxx’s breastplate. Shaxx _does_ snort at him this time. Then, he’s being lifted off the ground with no warning, and _that_ does jolt him into alertness.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, trying to get out of Shaxx’s hold on him. It’s rather…fanciful, the way Shaxx is attempting to carry him, as if he’s some delicate character from one his books, with his arms under Felwinter’s legs and back, and at least one person among them is giving them a strange look.

“Taking you to get some rest,” Shaxx says, as if it were obvious, starting to walk out of the hall. Felwinter, as strangely sluggish as he feels, can do very little to maneuver himself out of this situation, though he tries. “You did well, and now, I’ll watch over everyone for a while,” Shaxx continues, as if Felwinter isn’t struggling against the huge pillars he calls arms.

“Do not _patronize_ me,” Felwinter objects, though he stops trying to get out of Shaxx’s hold in favor of focusing on what they’re both saying. It takes a surprising amount of effort to both listen and keep his own tone even.

“I’ll be right back, then we’ll see what we can do about that window.” Shaxx calls over his shoulder, and he starts down the hallway, carrying Felwinter’s considerable weight easily without jostling him. “I’m not trying to offend,” he says, softer as he goes, “That was meant to be genuine. What you did for them, I--they will not easily forget it.”

“I did what needed to be done,” Felwinter says, but he’s stuck on the softness, almost _fondness_ in Shaxx’s tone. Shaxx turns down a hallway and starts up a set of stairs Felwinter has only walked once or twice, and it’s only then he realizes, blearily, that they’re going in the opposite direction of his quarters, “Wait, where are you taking me? My room is on the other side of the castle.”

Felwinter both feels and hears Shaxx chuckle at him, “Trying to tell me the layout of my own keep, Iron Lord?” He makes one last turn and nudges open a door with his foot, and Felwinter lolls his head to the side to see an unfamiliar room that’s clearly Shaxx’s own personal quarters. “This is closer. It’ll be easier to come and get you if needed.”

It’s getting increasingly more difficult for Felwinter to focus on anything but the buzzing in his head, but he takes quick stock of all the possible entrances and exits to the room (door, window, ceiling—but unlikely) and the few furnishings, namely the massive four-poster bed that occupies the center of one wall. Shaxx heads in precisely that direction, adjusting his hold on Felwinter to ease him down right in the middle with flummoxing gentleness.

Felwinter feels himself flop back the remaining distance to the mattress with little control, and though he expects Shaxx to comment on his apparent lack of finesse, all the Warlord does is stand next to the bed, looking down at him with apparent concern. “You really must’ve done a number on yourself, keeping that rift up,” he says, crossing his arms, “You’ve probably exhausted your Light. I’m sure that Ghost of yours will have something to say about that.”

“It’s a well,” he murmurs, as he sinks back against the pillows and mattress, but his mind provides nothing else to work with, clouded with demands of **rest** and **shut down** and **heavy**.

Shaxx just shakes his head at him again, sighing, “ _Well_ , hopefully some solid rest will do you good.” Felwinter tries to snort at him, but his sight is already fading now that he’s no longer being moved. His limbs feel burdensome, and just _when_ did his helm get so uncomfortable? He feels Felspring transmat it off for him and he thinks a quiet, muddled **thank you** for her.

“The lights in your face, they’re so…dim,” Shaxx notes, tone low, and Felwinter can barely see him and the way he clenches a fist from the corner of his optics, “You are just so—“ Shaxx cuts himself off, and there’s another sigh, softer this time. “Rest well, Felwinter,” he says, and a faint pressure lingers along the side of his face before the world goes dark.

* * *

When he wakes, it’s with a bit of terror.

There’s a blanket draped over him, and all the big pieces of his armor have been removed, nowhere to be seen. He scrambles out of the bed, recognizing it immediately as not his own, mostly because he does not sleep in his bed.

(Or ever, really.)

His knife is out of its sheath and in his hand before he even registers it. His core processors are working close to double-time as he peeks about the room, cloudy memories slowly returning to him as he presses his back to the nearest open corner.

The people from the village, circled around him. The decaying warmth of his Solar Light dissipating. Shaxx carrying him down the hall. His voice radiating through Felwinter’s frame as he holds him, softer than he looks capable of. A resting pressure along the side of his face.

He’s in Shaxx’s room, in Shaxx’s castle. Not in his study at the top of the observatory, not the inner workings of a Warmind bunker.

He puts his knife away neatly, reaching up with one hand to slowly touch the side of his own uncovered face, phantom weight lingering as he recalls.

He can just barely make out the sound of voices elsewhere in the castle, probably from the main hall. Felspring materializes next to him, and it takes perhaps too much effort not to visibly jump at her appearance.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, and he’s utterly relieved to hear her clearly as she gives him a quick scan, “Well, actually, it’s after noon. You were out for a full day. You gave us quite a scare, you know.” Her light tone goes full reprimand, and he winces, “How many times have we talked about this? Yes, the Light makes you stronger. But you still have _limits_. You can’t just go holding a Well of Radiance by _yourself_ for nearly twelve hours and expect there to be no consequences!”

“I had it handled,” he says, standing upright. She does him the favor of retrieving his armor for him, but she puts it on the bed instead of on _him_ , bristling at him, “ _Did_ you have it handled? If that really had been a Captain and not Shaxx who came through that door, what would you have done? You were in no state to fight _anything_ after the six-hour mark.”

He goes about clasping and looping his leg guards on, feeling remarkably small all of a sudden, “You know why I did what I did.”

“Yes, of course I do. But if there had been an attack…You being there, all drained like that-- it wouldn’t have done those people _any_ good.” She sags midair, then comes to rest in his outstretched palm, perking right up, “At least I got to see Shaxx carry you like some tragic, rescued maiden.”

“You--!” she cackles and whizzes out of his reach when he goes to bat her with his other hand, and he grits his theoretical teeth, jaw clenched as he finishes fixing the fastenings on his chest plate, “He did _not_ have to do that. It was…humiliating.”

“Was it?” she snickers at him, floating just the slightest bit too far away for him to really do anything about it, “You certainly put up less of a fight than you could have. Was it nice? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“My systems were shutting down without my control,” he insists, stiffly adjusting the fit of his fur, “So no, I did not enjoy it.”

The warmth of Shaxx’s gloved hand along his jaw springs back to the front of his mind, and he shoves his helm back onto his head, taking a better look around now that he’s better equipped.

Shaxx’s room isn’t as grandly furnished as the library, for certain. The large bed is one of the few pieces of actual furniture in here, along with the single chest at the foot of it. Various weapons hang on the wall, surprisingly neat, and there’s a stack of books on the nightstand along with a single empty tankard. There’s a desk against the far wall, by the single window, and through the bars of it Felwinter can see the flakes still steadily falling, though they seemed to have thinned somewhat. He decides against opening the chest (which he finds is locked anyways) and opts to examine the desk, instead.

In stark contrast to the rest of Shaxx’s tidy personal quarters, there are papers scattered over the desk in varying states of smoothness. An inkwell sits half-full to the side, and a rather worn quill rests next to it. Feeling maybe a bit like he’s intruding, Felwinter picks one of the less crumpled papers up to glance over it, and a wave of heat washes over him at the writing upon it.

_You are the sun, awash in the glory of dawn,_

_You who catches the stars in the crest of your helm,_

_You who wields the might of those stars in your blade,_

_And I am Icarus, the fool, who dares give chase_

_To the danger of getting scorched, incinerated_

_In order to catch just a taste—_

Felwinter sets the paper down quickly, scattering several of the other crumpled pieces on the desktop in his haste. In his periphery, he sees more of the same style, the same handwriting, all saccharine and full of scratched-out words and places on the pages where the writer’s pen sat for too long as he thought, ink seeping into thick dots. Where _Shaxx’s_ pen sat too long, as he thought and wrote about _Felwinter_.

He beats down the urge to read through any of the rest, and then also the urge to burn all the paper and poetry, and then the desk itself.

A month ago, he would’ve laughed in the face of anyone who suggested that the infamous Warlord Shaxx would ever write poetry about him. Even two weeks ago, he would’ve found it difficult to believe the man harbored any sort of romantic inclinations towards him. He thinks of how Shaxx carried him, how he’d chided him yesterday, then brought him to the safety of his own quarters, actions all full of trust.

“He came to see you while you were out, several times. He _cares_ about you. He _trusts you_ ,” Felspring says, drifting down towards him, eyeing the desk, “Don’t bother trying to read the rest of those, it’s a lot of the same. That last one seems to be the newest draft.”

“Newest draft?” he asks, forcing himself to take several steps back and turn away from the desk, “There are multiple?”

Felspring gives him the look that means _really?_ and she flits away, too, “Yes, multiple. Seems like he’s been working on this for a while.”

After a moment of consideration, Felwinter turns to make the bed, “We are going back down to the main hall. We are going to pretend we never saw the desk.”

“Yeah? And what happens if he presents you with his lovingly-crafted masterpiece?” Felspring asks, nudging a wayward pillow back into place.

“I will cross that bridge when I get to it,” he says, turning for the door, which means he doesn’t know, yet.

Lunch seems to have just wrapped up as he enters the great hall, and when he makes no effort to hide the crisp sound of his boots on the stone, several heads shoot up. He lingers in the doorway, and immediately the children rush up to him, one even crying. From the wails, he gets the gist that they’d thought he’d died. He gives the crying child a careful, consolation pat on the head, and that seems to help somewhat.

Their parents collect them from him, murmuring apologies, or thanks, but there’s relief painted on their faces, too. He feels…strange. This is not fear, nor awe. It’s respect, tinged with something…sentimental.

He doesn’t get very far down that path of thought before Shaxx is marching towards him. He stops a few feet from Felwinter, surveying him, before he’s being crushed by a pair of muscular arms. For a moment, he smells coffee and static, and then Shaxx releases him, holding him at his shoulders instead. He doesn’t have to see Shaxx’s face to feel the relief, the pure elation radiating off of him.

“Good to see you back on your feet,” he says, tone far more buoyant than when he’d last heard it.

“It is good to be back,” Felwinter replies, maybe a bit overwhelmed by Shaxx’s sudden visible display of affection. It’s not unusual for comrades in arms to hug. It is commonplace, even, he tells himself. Felspring snorts at him.

“Iron Lord Felwinter,” calls one of the elders, off to the side, and Felwinter turns his head (mindful of both his and Shaxx’s horns) to see the older man lower his head in respect, “You have our thanks, for keeping us safe during Lord Shaxx’s endeavor.”

The other elders copy him, and then other townsfolk are calling out thanks. Shaxx beams at him, releasing one of his shoulders to gesture to him, and Felwinter pushes down the damned _feelings_ rising in him to address the people, “I only did what needed to be done. You should thank your _protector_ ,” and he nudges Shaxx with an elbow, “For dealing with the threat so quickly.”

At that, many of the people burst into praise for Shaxx, and Felwinter swallows down a laugh as Shaxx’s helm turns towards him in betrayal. He ducks out of Shaxx’s hold as he gets swarmed with gratitude.

By the next morning, the storm has cleared. A quick air pressure check by Felspring confirms that the heavy clouds have passed them, and the wind that whips his freshly washed cloak around him as he climbs the steps back up to the gate is less brutal than before. Shaxx is waiting for him at the big doors, gazing out at the horizon in a way Felwinter might have once categorized as ‘empty’ but he now thinks of as ‘thoughtful’.

He stands next to Shaxx for a few minutes, just taking in the sight of the massive clouds inching away from them and the sun rising in their wake. Shaxx takes a deep breath in and turns to face him, “My Ghost said it should be safe to send the people back down to their homes now. Yours?”

Felwinter nods and looks down at the village below. It seems that only a few of the homes have sustained damage in the storm, and there is no sign of Fallen activity from what he can tell. “She says the same. The clouds should clear fully by late afternoon.”

Shaxx nods at that, and while he turns back to face the sky and the town, Felwinter can tell he’s still looking sideways at him, “Nearly a week has passed. I’m sure they’ll all be relieved to go home,” the Warlord says, leaning against the wall in front of the gate, his posture relaxed, “I know _I’m_ relieved.”

Felwinter watches him with delayed interest, eyes caught on the movement before he replies, “Not sad to see them go so soon? After how excited they were to see you return?”

Shaxx chuckles at that, a warm little thing that winds its way past Felwinter’s guard, “Not necessarily. They don’t need you to egg them on, either.” He shifts his weight, considering Felwinter once more, his gaze heavy, “It’s more that I think we have unfinished business to attend to.”

Felwinter considers him, too. A week ago, he was conflicted. Perhaps he still is, somewhere in the weasel’s den that is his mind. Right now, as he looks at Shaxx, he feels the strength of that earlier resolve settling in him. “I suppose we might,” he says, but it feels less flighty and more spirited.

Shaxx regards him for a moment longer, with that posture that Felwinter reads as _hunger_ , before turning to head back inside, tone roguish, “Well, I don’t want to keep you waiting. Let’s get these people home.”

It takes longer than he likes to shepherd all the people out of the castle, as they double check for partners and belongings. They do a remarkably…thorough job of cleaning up after themselves. All the while, he feels like he’s buzzing again, but instead of droning in his head like before, it feels like it’s just under his plating, coursing through him, anticipation. Shaxx is feeling much the same if the glances he keeps sending his way are any indication. He keeps seeing glimpses of his helmet, turned towards him over the heads of the people as they rush to gather themselves, and it makes the jolts of almost electric energy running through him stronger, somehow.

There’s a bit of an incident with a missing doll that Felwinter manages to find shoved under one of the tables in the main hall, safely returned to the hands of a watery-eyed young one. Then, he’s watching the small crowd head back down into the village below from the top of the stairs in front of the main hall’s doors. The clouds have indeed cleared, both in the sky above and in his mind, and when the last of the people have entered their homes, Shaxx turns to go back inside, eyeing Felwinter in an immodest way as he passes.

He can feel Felspring gloating when he waits just a moment before following.

The instant he shuts the massive door behind him, he’s being caged against it, one of Shaxx’s hands coming down beside his head with a weighty thud. Felwinter turns to face him, and Shaxx’s helmet is directly in view, his posture bordering on wolfish as he further encroaches on Felwinter’s space, his other hand curling around his waist like it belongs there.

“Have you had enough time to consider my invitation?” the Warlord asks, hand slipping underneath his cloak to thumb at his robes, and he’s almost sure Shaxx can hear his fans pick up immediately by the way he tilts his head and presses more firmly at his waist.

Felwinter makes a show of thinking about it, visibly considering it. He traces the length of Shaxx’s extended arm with just the tips of his fingers, from where his fingers rest on the door behind him all the way to his shoulder. He presses his fingers into the muscle there, and he feels the Titan tense underneath his hand.

**What I want** , he recalls. Felspring is notably, blessedly quiet. Shaxx seems to be holding his breath in expectation.

He realizes he’s never felt more powerful.

“I believe I have,” he says, reaching with both hands to press the release on Shaxx’s helmet. The Warlord lets him lift it up and off him, and it dematerializes in his hands, probably whisked away by Shaxx’s Ghost. Felwinter barely notices its weight leave his hands, truly. He’s focused on the plain, fierce _desire_ etched in every feature of his uncovered face. Shaxx presses him to the door, the hand that was behind him coming to rest at his shoulder instead, his breath fogging the corners of his visor.

“Well?” Shaxx rumbles, hands staying right where they are, to Felwinter’s simultaneous solace and disappointment, “What’s your answer? I’ll have you know I’m not very patient.”

“Help me take off my helm,” he says by way of answer, and Shaxx unhooks it with mostly steady fingers. Felspring sends it away, too, and then Shaxx is pressing searing hot kisses to his jaw, holding his head steady with one hand.

The nerve of him.

Felwinter lets him go at it for a moment, enjoying the feeling, before he slips a leg between Shaxx’s and grinds his knee up. Shaxx nearly slumps against him, gasping against his neck, and Felwinter allows himself a hint of a smile.

“Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” he asks, reaching to wrap a hand around the back of Shaxx’s neck, wrenching his head upwards. The Titan’s full attention is on him, pupils blown wide like they were in bath all those days ago. Felwinter decides that he enjoys that. “You didn’t even ask what I’d like you to do. So forward, and here I was thinking you were a romantic.”

“I never said I was,” Shaxx counters, though his uneven breathing is a drop-dead giveaway. He clears his throat, not moving, voice a bit strained, “What is it that you’d like?”

Felwinter lowers his knee, and he swears Shaxx sighs at the loss of contact. He tuts at him, “We’ve established you’ve only been with one Exo before, yes? Were you just going to feel around until you found something that worked?”

“That’s—Well, I was—” Shaxx stumbles over his words, and his hold on Felwinter loosens.

Felwinter takes the opportunity to hook his leg around Shaxx’s and spin them around with enough force that when Shaxx’s back hits the door instead, it rattles, the sound echoing through the hall. He pins him there, though he avoids his neck, instead opting for gripping Shaxx’s shoulder and waist. “Let’s not waste time,” Felwinter says over Shaxx’s bewildered noise, thinking not-so-fondly of the experimental way Timur had prodded at him the first few times they’d ‘slept’ together. His fingers find one of the gaps in Shaxx’s armor, and he presses there at his hip. The Warlord shudders but remains silent besides his breathing. Good.

“You’ve proven decent enough at following instructions, and hopefully your instincts are sound. You will listen to me, and perhaps we’ll manage.” He fixes Shaxx with a stare, even and unyielding, “Understood?”

“I—” Shaxx starts, but Felwinter presses his full weight against him, their armor making an unfortunate clamor. “Understood,” he corrects himself, and Felwinter eases off him with a nod.

“Good,” he says, and then he gestures to the Warlord, feeling impatience finally win over a need for control, “Well? What are you waiting for? Your room or mine?”

“Mine,” Shaxx says, short and breathless, before his mouth is on Felwinter’s jaw again, sending almost literal sparks down his spine.

Somehow, they make it up the stairs and to his quarters, despite Shaxx being seemingly unwilling to not be touching him at all times.

When the door closes behind him, Felwinter feels untroubled for the first time in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the crossroads. Next time I update, it'll be with one of the two possible endings for what turned into a monster of a fic (for me at least, I know people are out here writing 100k+ word fics and that is WILD). These two endings will depend on whether Felwinter truly chooses to trust Shaxx or not, and how different the outcomes are. One will be assertively more canon-compliant than the other.  
> This has truly been a passion project for me, and I know I keep saying it but HOW is there not more content for these two? (it's probably because everything we know about Felwinter comes from exotic armor/Felwinter's Lie lore zzz)  
> Thank you for reading, and if you have the time/desire, please let me know in the comments your thoughts. Reading those keeps me engaged in writing this more efficiently, and I'm very, very grateful for any comments and kudos.   
> And find me on twitter @maxcapacitygo for previews of the next part/ranting on their dynamic/other stuff.


	6. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ “I first woke up in a library,” Shaxx says one day, laying next to Felwinter with an arm curled loosely around him. Felwinter’s fans are still blowing hot air, hands still shaking from Shaxx’s methodical approach to making him feel good. “All things considered, probably not a bad place to start learning everything over again,” the Warlord continues, fingers tapping idly at Felwinter’s side, “What about you?”  
> Dread swirls in Felwinter’s gut, an unwelcome and familiar specter. He focuses on regulating all his vital functions, appearing unchanged on the outside. “I don’t remember much,” he lies, “Just running.”  
> Shaxx’s hand stills against his plating, then it runs in soothing circles, “I’m sorry.”  
> “Don’t be. It’s nobody’s fault,” he answers, though he doesn’t quite meet Shaxx’s eyes. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again...  
> Some of y'all have been making ART?? Inspired by this fic?? And it makes me lose my MIND every time I look at it.  
> Please, feast your eyes on the following:  
> [by RShapeshifter on twitter](https://twitter.com/RShapeshifter/status/1295288721730752512)  
> [by texeoghea on twitter](https://twitter.com/texeoghea/status/1295383908050259974)  
> [by stormfall10 on twitter](https://twitter.com/stormfall10/status/1296356168437129217)  
> If anybody else feels inspired to make anything based around my work (or anything involving Felwinter in general, honestly) PLEASE tag me/show me! I love seeing that kind of stuff, makes my whole week!  
> So this is the 'ending' that is more canon-compliant, but even still i doesn't match completely with the lore. I bent a few things to my liking for the drama.  
> This is also the chapter that brings the rating of this work up. If you don't want to read all the explicit bits, scroll down to the first line break. Everything after that point is in more mature territory. Please be kind, this is the first time I've posted anything like this in several years.  
> I hope you enjoy!

As soon as the door to Shaxx’s quarters closes behind them, the Warlord in question crowds him against the door, fingers immediately plucking along his frame in a desperate search for the clasps and fastenings of his robes and armor.

Felwinter lets him work for it, reaching up to tug Shaxx’s head down and to the side, doing his best impression of the near-bites Shaxx pressed along the column of his throat along the way up the stairs. He can’t quite mimic the effect, not having a fully functioning tongue and all, but the effort is appreciated if the nearly wounded noise Shaxx makes is any indication.

Shaxx’s bumbling finally bears fruit and Felwinter feels cool air part the seam at the front of his coat, warmth immediately replacing it as Shaxx’s palm presses neatly against the visible parts of his frame. It looks aesthetically pleasing, Felwinter admits to himself—Shaxx’s still-gloved hand a stark contrast against the black synthetic muscle and scarlet wiring of his chest.

Then Shaxx digs his fingers into the groove between the wiring and fleshier bits there, and Felwinter blinks back into the here-and-now, tapping twice on the front of Shaxx’s chest armor, “Take this off.”

Shaxx reluctantly releases him to do so, even going so far as to hastily shed his gauntlets and greaves, and Felwinter watches, unhurriedly undoing the bindings of his gloves. Shaxx tries to descend upon him again once he’s stripped somewhat, but Felwinter grabs him by the collar of his undershirt, tutting, “Patience,” as he pushes Shaxx towards the bed behind him.

“I think I’ve been plenty patient,” Shaxx grumbles, but he goes willingly, stepping back once, twice, thrice until the back of his legs meet the frame.

A considerable part of Felwinter wants to ask just how long Shaxx has been ‘patient’ for, but it feels…indecent, somehow. Instead, he pushes Shaxx with a firm touch until the Warlord is sitting on the edge of the bed, undershirt wrinkled from where he’d seized it. He takes a moment to enjoy being able to see over Shaxx’s head, stepping close enough that Shaxx has to move his legs to accommodate his own.

“You’ve still got plenty on,” Shaxx says, seemingly trying for unaffected, but Felwinter locks onto the slightly breathy tone and the way Shaxx is eyeing that sliver of exposed frame, “Want help with that?”

“No,” he replies, and Shaxx looks up at him, for once, dark eyes clouded with confusion and anticipation. Felwinter, fully aware of how Shaxx is looking at him, tugs his last glove off his hand with his mouth, letting it drop to the floor. He tugs the collar of Shaxx’s shirt with one finger, and the fabric strains around his neck, his shoulders.

Once again, Shaxx reaches for him, large hands about to come to rest at his waist, and with a huff, Felwinter snatches at both of his hands. “How many times,” he hisses, holding Shaxx’s wrists together between them, “Must I tell you to be patient?”

When Shaxx doesn’t immediately answer, Felwinter gives himself a moment’s focus to bring a thread of Void into his fingers. Making direct, firm eye contact with the Warlord, he winds the tether around Shaxx’s wrists.

“Moving a bit fast, aren’t we?” Shaxx asks, breathless, looking at his hands as he tests the strength of Felwinter’s Light.

“You’re the one who couldn’t follow directions,” Felwinter snips back, and then he’s back into Shaxx’s space, pushing his legs further apart with one boot and shrugging out of the rest of his coat.

“Didn’t even know you could use Void,” Shaxx murmurs, and Felwinter pulls Shaxx’s shirt the rest of the way off, too, so he can trail cold, cold fingers down his chest. The Warlord shudders, fingers twitching futilely as Felwinter pools Void into his fingertips, tracing the line of his pectoral with muted interest.

“There is much you do not know about me,” he replies, digging his fingers in so they leave little raised marks on Shaxx’s skin. His fingertips aren’t clawed like some Exos he knows of, but they’re enough to do the job, Shaxx groaning under the touch. He drags both his hands over the exposed skin, watching with fascination at how Shaxx reacts; a gasp, a shiver, his back arching as if he can’t decide whether Felwinter’s hands are helpful or harmful.

He has no doubt Shaxx could break the thin tether keeping his hands bound if he truly wanted to, but here the Warlord sits, letting Felwinter touch him just because he can, enjoying it, even.

Eventually, once he’s gotten his fill of watching Shaxx strain, once the hint of a growl in his voice becomes more than a hint, he urges Shaxx backwards. The larger man follows his guidance, scooting back further onto his bed, and Felwinter kicks off his boots and follows him until Shaxx’s back hits the headboard.

Shaxx watches him with that earlier hunger on full display as Felwinter settles astride him, his own undershirt getting untucked from his trousers as he reaches up to adjust the Void light shimmering across Shaxx’s scarred arms. He ‘ties’ them to the headboard, securely, leaning over Shaxx to do so, and when the Warlord realizes just what he’s done, he makes a low-pitched noise that Felwinter files away in the deep recesses of his mind for safekeeping.

He sits back, each of his knees on either side of Shaxx’s body, and though it’s not the most comfortable way to sit, it’s worth it for the way he can clearly see the Warlord’s eyes widen and his chest moving steadily up and down. He allows himself a moment for admiration, pressing his fingers against Shaxx’s abdominal muscles just to see them move, turning to grip one powerful thigh just to hear Shaxx’s breath hitch.

Shaxx squirms underneath him, and though Felwinter knows just how easily he could get out of this situation, he doesn’t really try. Felspring’s earlier words about _trust_ float to the front of his head and he slams them back into whatever place they came from before allowing the Warlord just the slightest bit of relief, cupping the lump that’s formed where he’s gotten fully hard from Felwinter’s ministrations.

The effect is immediate, Shaxx arching beneath him, but not enough to knock Felwinter off of him, sucking in a breath through his teeth as Felwinter’s touch goes from teasing to almost too much. Felwinter doesn’t lay off, either, following the outline of Shaxx’s cock through the material of his undersuit.

“Get on with it,” Shaxx growls from where he’s writhing against his pillows, and Felwinter snorts at him, giving him a solid squeeze before slipping off of him, tugging at the damned undersuit until he can get it off each of Shaxx’s legs, taking his time.

“I do not believe you’re in any position to tell me to do anything,” he comments, idly tossing the dark blue fabric over his shoulder and settling between Shaxx’s legs, resting his hands on each of his bare thighs and pulsing Void over them. The scars that mark the rest of Shaxx’s frame are here, too, and Felwinter tries not to let his gaze linger too long, though his mind chugs through questions and theories about just how the Warlord got them. Instead, he traces lines of Light up and down the inside of Shaxx’s thighs, acknowledging the way the muscle there tenses and untenses.

The frame of the bed groans in protest as Shaxx pulls on the tether, impatient, and Felwinter digs his fingers into the meat of his thigh in warning, but doesn’t keep him waiting too much longer, fingers dancing up the line of one particularly long scar. He traces it until he’s trailing feather-light, barely-there touches along the length of Shaxx’s cock.

The Warlord gasps in relief and then apparent frustration, his legs enclosing Felwinter’s frame until Felwinter weaves the chill of Void into the hand currently toying with him. He finally gets a light grip on him, and Felwinter looks up to see Shaxx chewing at his lip, expression equal parts furious and stimulated. There’s already white beading at the tip, and Felwinter feels a peculiar sense of satisfaction at being the reason. When he ducks his hand to trace further back, Shaxx lets his head loll back with a low groan.

“Do you have—” Felwinter starts, and there’s a flash of particles as Shaxx’s Ghost drops a little bottle onto the bed within his reach and flickers away once again. There’s a moment before Felwinter reaches for the bottle during which he does his best impression of raising a single eyebrow, and Shaxx just shrugs at him. Or, rather, he moves his shoulders as much as he can, being effectively bound to the headboard.

“What? It can be handy to have around,” Shaxx says, and it could almost be nonchalant if not for his breathlessness and his cock, hard and heavy in Felwinter’s other hand.

“Handy, indeed,” Felwinter replies, at least some part amused. He keeps Shaxx busy, giving him a few slow, dragging strokes as he gets his other fingers slicked. Shaxx hisses his encouragement, and, sitting between the absolute logs the Warlord calls his legs, he feels simultaneously small and powerful, especially when Shaxx grits out some semblance of his name as Felwinter starts spreading him open.

Here, he takes even more time, optics flicking from the tight slide of his fingers to the ridges of Shaxx’s torso, then up further, where Shaxx’s forehead is pressed against one of his arms, his mouth hanging open as his breath comes quicker.

“You’re tight,” Felwinter observes, punctuating the statement with a curl of his fingers, “How long has it been for you?”

“Long enough,” Shaxx grunts, and Felwinter curls his fingers again just to hear how Shaxx’s breath gets punched out of his lungs.

He keeps a steady pace, spreading Shaxx open with three of his fingers, puzzling out the correlation between his movements and what sounds the Warlord makes, letting Shaxx’s cock lay ignored, flush against his abdomen. He keeps teasing for what could be hours or minutes, he’s not sure, ingrained in the process as he is.

Eventually, Shaxx starts getting antsy again, and he nudges Felwinter in the back with one of his feet.

Felwinter shoots him a glare, twisting his fingers around until Shaxx nearly whines, lifting his other hand from where he’d been holding onto the Warlord’s thigh to grip the base of his cock.

“Shaxx. Don’t,” Felwinter chides him, and now Shaxx _does_ whine, low in his throat, as Felwinter’s cold, dry hand works him in slow, grating motions. He drags his thumb through the collected precum at the tip and presses three fingers knuckle-deep into him, and Shaxx comes with a shout.

With distant surprise, Felwinter works him through it (he’s not _overly_ cruel), though when he pulls his fingers away, he grimaces at the residue on his hands. He’s removed his undershirt to wipe them off on when Shaxx’s large hand catches him by the wrist, surprisingly gentle.

When Felwinter glances back, it seems that Shaxx has finally gotten his wits about him enough to snap the thin Void tether, but what genuinely surprises him is that Shaxx pulls his hand to his mouth, working his tongue between all the intricate joints to lick his hand clean. Or, as clean as one’s hand can get by another’s mouth.

And Felwinter lets him, somewhat entranced by the motion, the gesture. Shaxx’s tongue curls just shy of one of the many sensors in his hands and he has to make a strong effort to maintain focus. Then, when he deems his work done, Shaxx just goes about pressing kisses to his fingertips, his knuckles, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

“That was…certainly worth the wait,” Shaxx says--while Felwinter’s distracted, confused--and his defenses are down enough that Shaxx tugs him closer without much resistance. “Your turn?” the Warlord asks, once he’s got his hands where he wants them, tracing Felwinter’s spinal column and resting at his hip.

“I suppose,” he replies, hoping his tone hides the apprehension he feels creeping up on him. He has no idea what to expect, knowing full well Shaxx is nothing like Timur, and therefore will not be prodding experimentally at him, trying to figure out his innermost mechanisms. Despite that, maybe because of that, his mind races between possibilities, and the unknown, the potential...unnerves him.

His body language must betray him, because Shaxx smooths his palm over his lower back and murmurs, “Just tell me what to do.”

Felwinter nods, feeling much more acclimated to doing that. He shifts and leans back, sitting practically in Shaxx’s lap now as the Warlord’s back rests against the headboard. His hands are already skimming the surface of Felwinter’s chest, following wiring, tracing the pads of synthetic muscle and plating. “The red wiring,” Felwinter finds himself saying, and he sees and feels Shaxx’s fingers trace one such path, “There’s a small light near the end, and right next to it—”

The Warlord presses a finger, heavy, in the indent laying in the auxiliary light’s shadow, and Felwinter feels his vocal synth catch and stumble as pseudo-endorphins rush through him. He almost expects Shaxx to chuckle or make some smarmy remark, but all he hears is Shaxx taking a shaky breath behind him, finger brushing over the sensor again before tracing down another scarlet-wired section.

“Here, as well?” Shaxx asks, thumbing at the matching sensor on the other side of where his ribcage would be, and when Felwinter nods, he toys with it, his other hand holding Felwinter steady against him as his shoulders tense involuntarily. He notices marks, fresher than his scars, around Shaxx’s wrists where he’d looped the tether around them, and feels something like _guilt_ for a moment before Shaxx presses more insistently at both sensors he’s found so far, making Felwinter’s back arch before he can catch himself.

He’s made quite quickly aware of the fact that he’s been digging his fingers into Shaxx’s thighs rather harshly when one of the Warlord’s hands drops to cover his, his voice a low murmur right next to Felwinter’s head, “Relax. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

 **An empty promise,** Felwinter thinks to himself, half wishing Shaxx had never expressed feelings for him in the first place so he wouldn’t be caught up in all this…vulnerability.

He loses that train of thought as quickly as he’d caught it when Shaxx presses his fingertips into the crook of his elbow, lighting up another sensor with almost too much tactile feedback. His entire arm goes lax, and Shaxx traces the wiring down to his hands, curling his fingers around Felwinter’s wrist. He raises Felwinter’s hand to look at it more closely, making a thoughtful noise.

“Between your fingers, too?” he asks, and Felwinter hums his affirmation, the whole right side of his frame feeling almost too warm, perhaps because of his poor, overworked fans, or perhaps because Shaxx himself runs so hot. “Well, if I’d known that,” Shaxx says, and then he’s pulling Felwinter’s hand further upwards, breath washing over his fingertips, “I would’ve been more thorough.”

That’s all the warning Felwinter gets before wet heat envelopes his middle and index fingers, Shaxx’s tongue sliding against the sensors tucked between the joints. Felwinter can’t avoid the full-body jolt it provokes in him, nor the choked noise his modulator emits before he can click it off. Shaxx, the smug bastard, just hums around his fingers and _sucks_. Felwinter chances a glance up and almost immediately has to look away, already nearly overwhelmed by the feeling, let alone the _sight_ of Shaxx mouthing around his fingers like it’s something he’s been looking forward to all day.

The Warlord’s other hand slides to his still-clothed thigh, holding him steady against him as he continues to twitch under his mouth’s attention, but Felwinter’s not quite distracted enough to not notice how Shaxx’s hand incrementally inches upwards.

“Wait,” he manages, though it sounds more like a gasp. Shaxx immediately pulls off of his fingers with an obscene pop, hands stilling, “Something the matter?”

“No,” Felwinter replies, feeling almost feverish with his back against Shaxx’s chest, “You may need an explanation before you go any further, though.”

He only has to wait a moment as Shaxx processes his words, “Right. I wasn’t sure how to ask, but I _did_ notice that you had something…” he pats Felwinter’s thigh for emphasis, “ _Different_ going on here.”

Felwinter allows himself a snort, and he squirms out of Shaxx’s hold with little effort, though the Warlord’s eyes dart across his frame as he fully disrobes, kicking his trousers off and to the side. He sidles back into Shaxx’s space and the Warlord welcomes him with open arms, something he tries not to think too much about. Immediately, his hands are curled around Felwinter’s now bare thighs, leaning over Felwinter’s shoulder to look him over.

“It’s a generic mod,” he says, feeling a surprising lack of self-consciousness under Shaxx’s hungry eyes, “It reacts to varying stimuli, like pressure, heat…” he trails off, unlike him, as Shaxx’s fingers creep closer, one hand tracing around the edge of the skin-like textured patch.

“Different,” Shaxx echoes, almost thoughtful as he traces down the center of the patch lightly, and Felwinter feels entirely too warm again, fans kicking up wildly. “But most certainly not unwelcome,” Shaxx adds on, dragging his thumb in the opposite direction, and Felwinter’s entire body seizes up in delight and a healthy amount of nerves.

It feels almost too intimate, too _familiar_ , to be nearly surrounded by Shaxx as he carefully learns the curve of the mod underneath his fingertips, but Felwinter can’t tear his eyes away, hooked on the sight.

Shaxx pulls one of his legs more to the side so he has more space to work with, and Felwinter bites down on a noise he’s not sure he wants himself to hear as Shaxx’s touches become more confident.

“You’re holding back,” Shaxx notes, though he sounds strangely just as worked up as Felwinter feels. Felwinter’s leg strains against his hold as Shaxx’s thumb brushes over one of the ridges tucked just underneath the surface of his mod, and it takes him a moment to get his voice back under control after he clips through a guttural groan.

“So are you,” he rasps out, turning his head so he can see the way Shaxx’s expression darkens in his periphery. The Warlord grips his thigh, a shock of Arc surges up and down his leg, and his vision goes spotty for a moment, his auditory receptors ringing with a keen he distantly recognizes as his own voice. Shaxx keeps rubbing over that ridge, much rougher, and Felwinter finds that he can’t keep his head upright as it lolls back against Shaxx’s shoulder, his jaw dropped in a simulation of a silent scream.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he half expects to be reminded of the strange visions he had in meditation, or perhaps the phantom touch of past trysts, but all the information in his mind right now is _Shaxx_ , the sound of his voice as he urges Felwinter on, the grip on his thigh, his fingers splayed over his mod. There’s no space to think of anything else, as grounded as he is, with all of his senses.

It’s getting harder and harder to focus on anything else but the _feeling_ , the way Shaxx doesn’t let him hide any reaction, how he’s being made to watch himself come undone. Before, with Timur, he could chalk up any strange reaction to any number of things; being ‘just an Exo thing’, having an off day, being unprepared for what was going on…

Here, now, he’s forced to just _exist_. To react, openly, and though there’s still an edge of uncertainty, with the way Shaxx is holding him, how he’s already half-hard again—there’s no doubt that Shaxx is enjoying this, too.

Felwinter reaches to wrap his fingers around Shaxx’s cock again, figuring he might as well help, but his wrist gets tugged away, Shaxx speaking low against his shoulder, “No, let me focus on you.” He presses his fingers into the divot of Felwinter’s wrist, and another sensor lights up with a shock that leaves him chasing more, more.

With his leg free from restraint, he’s able to grind forward against Shaxx’s palm, and the Warlord groans against his shoulder, hand coming up to cup him more presently, an invitation. “That’s it,” Shaxx breathes against his neck, and the lights along his throat flicker in response as he stutters against the Warlord’s hand.

It’s too much, too much, and yet somehow not enough. His sensory board is all lit up with feedback, feeling nearly everything all at once. His modulator clicks out some sort of disparaging sound and Shaxx has the gall to chuckle at him, though he does press his hand, heavy, snug against him, curled close. A thrill of Arc sparks from Shaxx’s palm all the way to his fingers, and the residual energy skates across the plates that line Felwinter’s lower back, making the dual sensors lodged there sing. He grasps for purchase on something, anything, and finds Shaxx’s forearm in the scramble, his fingers barely able to wrap halfway around it.

He feels almost like a storm gathering, and he squeezes Shaxx’s arm with perhaps too much force, gritting out, “Close,” to which Shaxx responds by rubbing his palm over him more insistently, humming against his shoulder, and when another bright crack of Arc washes over him, with Shaxx cradling his wrist like it’s something precious and holding him close, he whites out.

It’s a brief, overwhelming thing, all his senses thrumming and shutting off, only to come back online seconds later. He’s reminded of the merits of letting his mind reboot, so to speak, and everything feels _more_ , the slight ache in his legs, the warmth of Shaxx’s body behind him. The Warlord himself finishes himself off again in a few quick, rough strokes, white splattering across his own hand and Felwinter’s midsection. Somehow, Felwinter finds himself only mildly annoyed as Shaxx pants behind him, running his own fingers through the mess with mild interest.

He shifts, looking back so he can see Shaxx’s face, and there’s fondness in his expression that he feels immediately undeserving of. The Warlord shifts, and Felwinter feels himself being moved to be held against his chest, head pressed against his ribcage where he can hear the man’s heartbeat, still quick.

He stiffens, partly in surprise and partly in confusion, and Shaxx muffles a chuckle against the crown of his head, “What? Not much of a cuddler?” His hold stays loose enough that Felwinter could easily get out if he wanted to.

And yet…

“It’s not something I’m…used to,” he settles on, feeling quite like he’s already shared too much.

Shaxx reaches somewhere, jostling Felwinter’s frame slightly, and he tamps down a grumble as Shaxx produces a cloth from somewhere, reaching to clean off Felwinter’s dirtied plating and muscle. Felwinter catches the cloth in one of his own hands, brushing Shaxx’s hand away, “I can do that myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Shaxx rumbles, looping his arms around Felwinter’s torso, seemingly content to rest his chin on Felwinter’s shoulder as they collect themselves.

* * *

It becomes somewhat of a mantra over the course of the next few days. Shaxx will go out of his way to do something for Felwinter, and, confused and somewhat apprehensive, Felwinter responds in much the same way, “I can do that myself.”

Shaxx tries to get a book off a high shelf for him. Shaxx holds a door open for him. After a particularly intense fuck, Shaxx offers to clean the mod he’d been using that time around with his mouth.

It’s too much, Felwinter thinks. He’s no fool; there’s clearly mutual attraction at play here, and a sense of chemistry between them that he can’t ignore, as much as he’d like to. But when Shaxx shows up to their daily bout with a box in his hands that he then offers to Felwinter, he drags a hand down the front of his own helm in frustration, “What are you doing.”

“What do you mean?” even this early, Shaxx’s tone is chipper, the box still extended towards Felwinter in one massive, gloved hand.

“This,” Felwinter gestures to the offending package, “And the other day, when you insisted on holding the door, or when you asked what kind of coffee I’d like to have in the evening. What are you doing?”

Shaxx, to his credit, seems puzzled, and the offering hand drops back to his side. “I’m…courting you?” he says, though he sounds less sure of himself than before, “At least, that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Courting?” echoes Felwinter, and Felspring—who has been _incessantly_ teasing him for the past few days—cackles outrageously.

“Yes,” Shaxx continues, and he straightens up, offering the box again, “This is for you. A gift.”

Felwinter, unsure of how to proceed, takes the package gingerly, and Shaxx watches with palpable excitement as Felwinter opens the box to find—

“A dagger?” Felwinter asks, carefully getting a handle on the curious thing. It’s a bit ornate, but it handles solidly, balanced well. Clearly made to be useful as well as pleasing to the sight. He turns it over in his hand a few times, examining the detailed engraving along the blade, the glint of the coiled handle.

“Custom-made, yes,” Shaxx says, practically glowing with eagerness, “I employed one of the smiths from town to make it. For you.”

“That’s…” Felwinter busies himself with tossing it, then smoothly catching it so he has a moment to gather his words, “Thank you. Wait, did you tell them who it was for?”

“No,” Shaxx hold his hands up in defense, “Just the specifications of the weapon itself. Did you,” his tone goes a little softer, almost shy (or at least as shy as Shaxx can get), “Did you read the engraving?”

Felwinter holds the dagger up so the letters on the blade catch the light, “Winter’s Wit,” he reads, slowly, and it dawns on him where he’s heard those words before, in the library…

 _Oh, what a romantic,_ Felspring supplies, rather unhelpfully.

“What does it mean?” Felwinter asks instead, trying to wring whatever meaning he can out of Shaxx’s words while his fans whirr louder.

“I’m sure you remember that conversation we had about Hamlet. The dagger might not be as sharp as your wit, but…” Shaxx says, sounding quite proud of himself, “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he answers, and he finds that against all odds, it’s truthful. The new dagger finds its new home next to his old one.

* * *

“I first woke up in a museum,” Shaxx says one day, laying next to Felwinter with an arm curled loosely around him. Felwinter’s fans are still blowing hot air, hands still shaking from Shaxx’s methodical approach to making him feel _good_. “All things considered, probably not a bad place to start learning everything over again,” the Warlord continues, fingers tapping idly at Felwinter’s side, “What about you?”

Dread swirls in Felwinter’s gut, an unwelcome and familiar specter. He focuses on regulating all his vital functions, appearing unchanged on the outside. “I don’t remember much,” he lies, “Just running.”

Shaxx’s hand stills against his plating, then it runs in soothing circles, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s nobody’s fault,” he answers, though he doesn’t quite meet Shaxx’s eyes.

The weight of his guilt and the words left unsaid settles over him like a heavy blanket in summertime.

* * *

The Warmind bunker tucked into the basement of the castle calls to him, still, constantly. Sometimes the music is operatic, other times it’s chaotic and hard to follow.

Sometimes, Shaxx catches him staring off into apparent nothingness, and when he asks, Felwinter always says the same thing: “Just a lot on my mind.”

“You can talk to me about it,” the Warlord offers, sometimes.

“I know,” he sometimes responds.

He doesn’t talk about it. He can’t. There’s too much risk.

He can’t.

* * *

Two days before both the Iron Lords and the collective Warlords are supposed to arrive, they are sitting in the library, fire warm at their feet.

“I’m going into town tomorrow,” Shaxx says, over the cover of his current favorite, “Going to make sure everyone’s ready as they can be for whatever happens tomorrow. Hopefully, your friends don’t provoke the local Warlords too much.”

Felwinter lets the book he was pretending to follow fall to his lap, “Hopefully _your_ friends don’t provoke them first.”

Shaxx snorts at him, shaking his head. “Not my friends. Will you join me?” he asks, extending his hand across the gap between them.

Somehow, it feels wider than ever.

 _Is this really what you want?_ Felspring asks him, almost sad.

 **This isn’t about what I want** , he answers, **this is the only way to do this, to stay safe.**

“Apologies,” he responds, pretending he doesn’t see Shaxx’s open hand, raising the book to his face again, “I have other preparations to make.” The Seraph bunker seems louder for a second, music swelling in his head.

“Ah,” Shaxx says, almost disappointed, clearly unprepared for that answer. His hand retreats into his own space, “Then we’d best make tonight count.”

Hours later, with steam practically radiating off of him as they move together, Shaxx holding him like he never wants to let go again, Felwinter almost breaks.

He almost begs Shaxx to come back with him, to join the ranks of the Iron Lords, or even just to come to the new City forming under the Traveler, somewhere safer. He almost asks Shaxx to bring his people and leave all this behind. He considers how far he’d be willing to travel to make sure that just the two of them could live out the rest of their existence in relative peace. He nearly drags Shaxx down to the Warmind bunker so he can show him exactly why it is that he can never truly outrun what seems to be his fate, to show him that he thinks he may very well be doomed.

He does none of those things, just shudders and groans and burns all those thoughts away with the weight of Shaxx’s hands and the flare of his own Light.

He finds no rest that night, just like the nights before.

Felwinter is still naked in Shaxx’s bed when the Warlord leaves for the town.

“Feeling alright?” Shaxx rumbles, most of the way through getting his armor on when he pauses to look over Felwinter’s prone form. He reaches out in apparent concern, laying a hand over his shoulder.

“Just fine,” Felwinter responds, the thick blanket Shaxx had thrown over them last night pooling around his waist.

Shaxx considers him for a moment longer, and Felwinter fears perhaps the Warlord can read his mind, but he just heaves a sigh, giving his arm a squeeze before he goes back to messing with his boots, “Alright. I’ll be back by evening. Hopefully Martine doesn’t try to give me her prize chicken again.”

Felwinter forces himself to chuckle at that, the dread from weeks ago coalescing into something solid, immovable in his core, and then Shaxx gives him another careful glance before heading for the door.

Several minutes later, once he’s sure he can no longer hear Shaxx’s footsteps, Felwinter dresses and makes his way down to the bunker’s hatch.

It’s almost too easy to bypass all the protocols, and the hatch swings open with a hiss. He swears for a moment he sees something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns, gun at the ready, there’s nothing.

Just him, Felspring, and his regret.

He makes his way through the bunker, disabling defenses, collecting data, and when he reaches the core, there’s a veritable trove of information; on farming techniques, inter-planetary travel, even weapon making, specifically swords. There are also coordinates, the true prize, to another facility, luckily also on Earth, not too far from the observatory. The irony sits bitter in his mouth as Felspring takes all the data she can, sweeping over the contents with vigor. It takes perhaps two hours before they’re both satisfied with the collection, and Felwinter shuts down the bunker’s console with a few well-placed commands. Once the hatch shuts behind them, there will be no sign of them ever being here.

He takes about two steps out of the bunker, and the hiss of the door’s hydraulics almost mask the sound of a gun being cocked at the back of his head.

Almost.

“Not another step,” Shaxx says, tone colder than he’s heard since he first arrived here, months ago, “Give me a single reason why I shouldn’t kill you now, and then your Ghost.”

“You’re surprisingly stealthy for someone of your stature,” Felwinter replies, not moving, not daring to even turn his head.

“Give me a reason, Felwinter.”

If he had reason to swallow, he would now. He takes a moment to consider his options, Felspring muttering escape routes in his head, “You won’t kill me. You can’t.”

“You think so?” Shaxx asks, and the muzzle of his gun presses against the back of his helm, right underneath the dead Ghost. From here, it’d be a quick death. Then what? How long would Felspring be able to wait before raising him? How long would Shaxx wait for his chance to shoot her, too? Or would he just spend however long he felt like killing Felwinter, over and over again?

“I know so,” he responds, slowly turning to face Shaxx. The gun stays level, pointed directly at the front of his helm, now, “I mean no harm to you or the people, but I can’t speak for the other Iron Lords if you _do_ kill me.”

“I’d defeat them all,” Shaxx says, then, after a moment, “Damn you. I know it would put the people in danger. You lot destroy just as much as you ‘protect’. You _bastard_.”

Felwinter raises his hands in a mockery of surrender, repeating himself, “I mean no harm.”

“I’m sure that’s the same thing you said to Citan. Tell me, then,” Shaxx demands, raising his voice, emotion getting the better of him, “Why the hell are you sneaking around like this? What was in that bunker that you needed to see so badly? Do you not _trust_ me?”

That last question bites at him like frost, and he clenches and unclenches his jaw several times before he feels safe enough to answer, “There are some things I cannot explain.” Even to his own mind, he sounds empty, hollow.

Shaxx lowers the gun then, taking a deep, uneven breath. It _hurts_ Felwinter, somehow, to watch, more than any injury he’s ever had.

“Then you know,” Shaxx says, much quieter, his shoulders sagging, “That once you leave here, you are not welcome back.”

“I know,” Felwinter replies. Felspring stifles a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob, and Felwinter feels his hands balling into fists against his will. He smooths his hands over his cloak to force himself to focus, to maintain some shred of composure, keeping his tone even, “Will you defy the Iron Lords?”

Shaxx curses under his breath, entire body tense with something Felwinter refuses to fully acknowledge, and the Warlord brushes past him towards the stairs. “I will do what is best for the people,” he states, and Felwinter almost wishes he sounded angry, furious, instead of cold and distant.

Shaxx’s form rounds the corner of the spiral staircase before Felwinter can formulate an acceptable response, and he supposes that’s as much of a dismissal as he’ll get.

He reads _Hamlet_ several times that night, until the edges of his mind are as ragged as the pages themselves. The worn, dog-eared copy gets tucked into his few personal belongings the next morning. The gifted dagger sits heavy on his thigh as he climbs up to the ramparts to watch both sides of the Risen approach.

When Shaxx approaches from the other side to join him, they exchange just a nod and Felwinter _aches_.

* * *

When Saladin and Efrideet come to collect him, when they jokingly ask who won, Felwinter clasps Shaxx’s shoulder one last time, “Shaxx. Shaxx won.”

He doesn’t turn back to see Shaxx’s face. There is no face to see, just the infallible fortress of a horned helmet, he’s sure. There is no longing gaze behind it, he’s certain. His feet feel heavy.

Efrideet’s gaze stays ahead, but he can feel the stare Saladin’s giving him from meters away. There are no spoken questions, but Saladin turns away to talk to Shaxx about something and Felwinter is spared from his judgement, for now.

He did his job, technically. He got into the bunker and retrieved valuable information. Shaxx has agreed to side with them, though he refused the title, saying he’ll instead go to the City forming under the Traveler, and the people want to follow. Saladin arranges the details of an escort for them and Efrideet finally looks him over, snorting, “You look like hell. How many times did he knock your head off?”

“Several,” he replies, and she laughs. It just makes him feel number, but he straightens his shoulders and keeps walking.

If he did his job, why does it feel like he’s failed?

* * *

“You look like shit,” Timur greets him with a grin as he walks into the library in the observatory about a week after his return to the peak.

He fixes the other Warlock with a withering look as best he can through his helmet. Timur’s is off, of course, like it always is when he’s lounging around waiting for Felwinter to indulge him in whatever nonsense he’s cooked up this time. He spends an awful amount of time around someone who has seriously considered shooting him in the back of the head.

Felwinter had been down at the sparring grounds, training some of the newer recruits in Light control. Their inability to focus coupled with the tenseness that hasn’t left his spine since he left the Warlord’s castle made for a particularly vicious combination, and now he is assuredly _not_ in the mood for whatever Timur wants from him.

“What do you want,” he grates out, half a step from turning around and walking back the way he came, going back to his quarters and shutting out the rest of the world.

Timur slides off the ledge he’d been perched on, the book in his hands dissipating in a flurry of particles as he sidles up to him, “Sheesh, do I have to _want_ something from you to talk to you?” When Felwinter doesn’t reply, Timur takes it as an invitation to loop his arm through one of Felwinter’s, starting to lead him down the hallway and away from the library.

 _So much for a nice bit of reading to wind down,_ Felspring mutters.

“I just wanted to ask how you’ve been,” Timur says, and Felwinter resists the urge to toss Timur to the ground.

“I am fine,” he replies, short, as Timur ducks down the hallway leading to his quarters, “Where are you going with this.”

“Fel, if you’re going to lie to me, at least _try_ to make it convincing,” Timur tuts at him, tugging him through the doorway of his room and nudging the door closed with his foot, “Need to blow off some steam?”

They’ve been through this before, many times, just not since Felwinter came back, and almost never when he’s in a bad mood. Usually, even Timur is smart enough to turn tail when Felwinter gets too tense, too sharp around the edges. Now, though, he looks right at him, right through him.

“Stop calling me that,” he replies, nearly automatic, as Timur leans him up against the door. Felwinter has to bite down the urge to shove him away, flashes of the last time someone pressed him to a door ripping through his mind unwarranted. He grips Timur’s arms instead, and the other Warlock stops trying to touch him.

“Whoa, hey there,” Timur says, like he’s trying to calm an animal, all of the usual mischief in his expression replaced with concern, “You’re shaking. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he grits out, stepping smartly out of Timur’s loosened hold and crossing his arms to keep his hands from visibly trembling, “Why are we here?”

“You’ve been acting…strange,” Timur starts, stepping back a little to give Felwinter space, “Well, stranger than usual, ever since you got back from that Warlord’s fortress. Did something…happen?”

“No,” he says. Then, feeling a sliver of guilt at Timur’s expression falling further, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Timur just studies him for a moment, hands poised in the air like he’s going to hug him, or something equally abhorrent. Then, the little crease that forms between his eyebrows when he’s working out a particularly difficult equation shows up, tone teasing, “Oh, Fel. You didn’t…you _two_ didn’t—”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he all but snarls. He is not going to have this conversation with Timur of all people, he refuses.

“I—” Timur looks like he’s going to push the issue, but then his face shifts into something softer as he slowly steps back into Felwinter’s space, telegraphing exactly where his hands are going, “Alright. If you don’t want to talk about it, how about I help you take your mind of it?”

It’s a bad idea. A terrible one, really. Felspring agrees with him.

“Fine,” he says, and Timur’s grin has a sharp edge when he tugs him forward by the fabric of his coat.

A few hours later, he lays next to Timur. Well, half on top of him, really, exhausted. He knows logically that contact with other people is supposed to help Exos feel less…distant. While he doesn’t know if that applies to him, his mind is blissfully empty now. Timur finds his breath next to him to ruin it, of course, “Ready to talk now? You’re going to have to eventually.”

Felwinter doesn’t respond for a long moment, partially because he knows Timur is right and he doesn’t want to admit it. The other Warlock is nothing but patient, though, or perhaps persistent, humming aimlessly as he combs his hair back into something more manageable and slipping back into his trousers. A kernel of guilt starts to rattle around in his mind, and he fights to keep it small.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, bracing himself for smugness. Instead, Timur pushes himself into a seated position, hair pulled back and shaking his head.

“This isn’t about me,” he says, looking straight at him, expression wry, “As much as I’d love to pick your brain about the defenses of that fortress, this is about you. The other Iron Lords have been talking about how all it’s going to take to set you off is a misinterpreted look.” When Felwinter looks back at him, unamused, he holds one hand up, “Point being, we’ve all noticed. Something happened during your little trip, and you haven’t talked to a single person about it. I bet not even your Ghost.”

Felwinter stiffens, and Timur snorts at him, “Yeah, you’ve got guilt written all over you. Now the question is: what exactly happened?”

“What my Ghost and I might discuss is no concern of yours,” he snips, but Timur doesn’t look away or laugh, just fixes him with a look that borders on stern.

“I’m willing to bet you pissed off that massive Warlord,” Timur goes on like he hadn’t said anything, pulling a knee to his chest and leaning back against the wall, “That you left on bad terms. Efrideet said the man looked about ready to run after you when you all were leaving. What did you do?”

Knowing he can only dodge questions and deflect for so long before Timur gets to the answer—or at least what he thinks is the answer—leads Felwinter to tap his fingers against his own chest, “He found me leaving the Seraph bunker under his castle after I’d broken into it.”

Timur just blinks at him, “That’s…it? Nothing else?” he rubs at his chin, “Seems…a bit like an overreaction. He would’ve just killed you if that was the case. No, that can’t have been all. Wait--” he snaps his fingers, “How did he know where it was in the first place?”

“He’s known it was there since before he accepted my invitation,” Felwinter says, and he can practically see the wheels in Timur’s unfortunately bright mind turning.

“Ah, so…” Timur mutters to himself, tapping out a sequence on his bent knee. Several seconds pass until he snaps again, “Oh! Oh. Fel…” he turns to face Felwinter fully, eyes suddenly sad, “I was joking earlier but you really _did_ catch feelings for him, didn’t you?”

“He ‘caught feelings’ for _me,_ ” Felwinter argues, but the look on Timur’s face tells him it’s a weak point, so he rolls over, off his back and onto his front, “I fail to see what this has to do with _anything_. And stop calling me that.”

“It has to do with _everything_ ,” Timur insists, leaning forward, looking rather like he’s seen something ghastly, “He saw you sneaking back out of that vault and his poor heart broke, I bet. And there were probably some awful words from both of you—oh, I know how mean you can be when you want to be—and then you _left_ and you two didn’t have time to make up—”

“That’s quite enough,” Felwinter cuts him off, uninterested in the fantastical places Timur’s mind is heading towards, “I never intended on doing anything while I was there besides accessing the vault, and I did just that. The task is complete.”

“That’s why you’ve been acting like this,” Timur continues in his stalwart efforts to mostly ignore his words, “You’ve been all snappy because you feel _bad_ about what happened between you two. And you don’t think there’s a way to fix it, and you _hate_ not being able to fix things.”

Felwinter doesn’t answer for a long moment. He’s already worked through all the possible situations, and there is no outcome in which he returns to Shaxx’s castle and lives. The few outcomes that involve Shaxx being at the Iron Temple all include either business he, himself is not involved in, or an utter catastrophe, both not good occasions to attempt to broach any sort of touchy subjects.

“There is no way to ‘fix it’,” he says, finally, and Timur frowns at him as he hurries to tack on, “Because there is nothing to fix.”

The kernel of guilt drops to his core and blooms into something hardier when a flash of something like hurt crosses Timur’s face, but it’s gone as soon as it had come.

“I am not there anymore. I am here now,” he says, as Timur continues to silently study him, and he rolls to face away from him, but doesn’t leave, “For now, that will have to be enough.”

* * *

Weeks later, Timur waltzes into his quarters at the top of the observatory with all the grace of someone who very much thinks he belongs there.

Felwinter chooses to ignore him, buried in meticulously going through all the data they’d collected from the newest bunker with Felspring’s assistance, cataloguing their findings for easier access. Timur says nothing, only ambles around the room, being nosy, no doubt. Felwinter lets himself get absorbed into his work again, tapping a finger against the side of his face.

“This is new,” Timur eventually says, and Felwinter sighs and sets down his datapad, turning to face Timur so perhaps he’ll leave him alone, only to stop in his tracks when he notices what the other Warlock is lazily leafing through.

“Put that down,” he demands, crossing the room in a few quick strides, hand outstretched to take the ancient-looking copy of _Hamlet_ from the damned pest.

Timur dances just out of his reach, ducking around his hands and turning the pages idly, “This thing must be hundreds of years old. Didn’t think you were a fan of Shakespeare, Fel.”

“Don’t call me that,” he finally manages to snag it out of Timur’s hands, tucking the book securely against his side after making sure it hasn’t been damaged, “It’s not mine.”

“Right,” Timur replies, a single eyebrow arched, and his lips curled into a knowing smile, “If that’s the case, why are you so protective of it? It’s just a book.”

“That is none of your concern,” Felwinter turns to put the book put in its proper place on the shelves that line the walls, and Timur chuckles behind him.

“Did you get it from your estranged lover?” Timur asks, sitting himself upon the bed he’d insisted Felwinter have in his quarters, despite not having a need (or want) for rest. When Felwinter says nothing, simply turning to go back to his work desk, Timur catches his wrist and tugs him back.

“What,” he says, full of bite, quite fed up with the other’s antics, but Timur’s expression is pensive instead of mocking when he actually looks at him.

“The other Iron Lords might think you’re back to normal, but I’m not convinced,” Timur states, thumbing over the worn material of Felwinter’s glove thoughtfully, “You’re still hung up about what happened with Shaxx.”

Felwinter sputters in defense, ready to list off all the reasons why that _isn’t_ the case, but Felspring pops up next to him, “Yes, he is. And I’m tired of him acting like he isn’t.”

He shoots her a look of absolute betrayal, but she looks away from him, primly, and floats away to rest in her favorite little alcove.

Timur whistles, low, “Well, that’s all the confirmation I needed. Come, sit,” he tugs Felwinter down next to him and slings an arm around his shoulders, touchy fool, “Look, I want to help. I have a wild idea, but it might work.”

“Because all the fooling around we’ve been doing has helped _so much_ ,” Felwinter retorts, and it startles a laugh out of Timur.

“Hey, you agreed to it. This is different, though,” the other Warlock reaches up to clasp the talisman that helps him focus his more…unorthodox gifts, “Remember the last time we tried to see if I could get into your head?”

“Unfortunately.”

They’d been sparring, Timur honing his Arc against Felwinter’s steadily increasing control of the Void. Timur had grabbed for his talisman in a last-ditch effort to stop Felwinter from collapsing him into himself, and Felwinter had felt tell-tale prickles of prying fingers around his mind and then, suddenly, nothing. Timur, however, had been flung backwards at such a high velocity that he’d died upon impact with the rockface behind him, spine snapping cleanly. Felwinter had done nothing of his own accord, but a streak of bright orange energy marked the ground between them for a long second, still visible when Timur’s Ghost reanimated him.

The nasty sound the impact had made still lingers with him as he recalls, and Timur shakes him lightly to bring him back around, “Well, I’ve been thinking—”

“Really? How unusual.”

“—yeah, yeah. But maybe it didn’t work last time because you didn’t want me in there. Maybe if you…invited me in, it would work. Then, you wouldn’t have to tell me about it, I could just…see. Could even help you suppress some stuff, if you want.” Timur looks over at him with something suspiciously like hope in his dark eyes.

Felwinter considers heavily. Neither option is excellent, but perhaps, _if_ it does work, and he can stop feeling like this…

“Alright,” he agrees, not without hesitance, “I can’t guarantee that the same thing won’t happen, but—”

“Alright!” Timur shakes his shoulder excitedly, hopping up off the bed and taking Felwinter’s hand, talisman in his other palm, “Just uh…empty your mind, I guess? Try not to think about any one thing in particular.”

“Easy for you to say,” Felwinter replies, but he does try to do just that, watching Timur close his eyes, his hold on Felwinter’s hand going lax as he enters the trance-like state he’s seen him use against unfortunate enemies a few times. This time, when the strange sensation brushes against the edge of his synapses, he tries to be as still as possible, tentatively reaching out to grasp whatever Timur uses to do this, his Light, perhaps?

It’s a strange feeling, as Timur carefully peeks around his mind, flipping through recent memories like pages in a book. He doesn’t go anywhere uninvited, this time, simply sticking to things near the surface. Felwinter can’t hear anything except the man’s breathing and his own mechanisms outside the realm of his mind, but he can almost see each moment Timur visits, as if through frosted glass. He goes backwards, chronologically, until the days he spent in Shaxx’s castle are on full view. He can physically feel the connection between their minds go brittle, and Timur’s rifling gets faster: the day he left, when Shaxx found him leaving the bunker, the last night they spent together, when Shaxx presented him with the dagger, the bath—

**СТОП**

The connection violently slams shut, and Timur ends up a few feet away, knocked aside by a flare of scarlet that Felwinter _definitely_ didn’t summon. Felspring jolts from her little nook, rattled by the noise and the movement, and she scans him warily as Timur’s Ghost does the same. Timur rises from the floor with a groan, rubbing at his temple, “Well, that went better than last time, at least.”

Felwinter, caught between batting Felspring away and reaching out to Timur, traps his hands in his own lap. “Did it?” he asks, warily watching as Timur limps back over to the bed, flopping down beside him again.

“I’d say so,” Timur replies, stretching out his back with a loud pop, “Shit, Fel, is your brain always so busy?”

“Busy?” Felwinter leans away, perhaps a little offended. Felspring snorts at him as she drifts away again. “I’m not sure what you mean. Also, that isn’t my name.”

“There’s a _lot_ going on up there, sheesh,” Timur folds his hands together, eyes darting across his face, lips set in a slight frown, “It’s a wonder you can focus on anything.”

“Thank you,” he says, dry, and Timur shakes his head.

“I didn’t see everything but I think I saw enough,” Timur reaches out to take Felwinter’s hand again, and with a sigh, Felwinter lets him, knowing if he refuses he’ll just end up being chased around his quarters until Timur gets the contact he wants.

“You…” Timur’s eyebrows draw together, thoughtful, when Felwinter doesn’t reply further, “You pulled away from him because you didn’t want to trust him. Right?”

Felwinter feels exhausted, suddenly, and he’s unsure if the effect is a result of Timur’s words or him rooting through his thoughts. He nods and Timur squeezes his hand with something like care, “There’s no reason to trust anyone else.”

Confusion flickers across Timur’s brow before he continues, “So, instead of letting yourself trust him, you broke _his_ trust.”

“Easier to deal with than being inevitably betrayed,” he reasons, wishing very much that this conversation would end quicker.

“Why do you think you’d be betrayed?” Timur asks, simultaneously gentle and firm, still clasping Felwinter’s hand in one of his own, “Did he do or say something that made you think that would happen?”

“Not necessarily,” Felwinter looks down at his unoccupied hand, wondering what the point of this is.

“Then what makes it inevitable?” Timur tilts his head, eyes trained right on his own, “ _I_ certainly have no plans of betraying you. Do you really think everyone is out to get you?”

Felwinter chooses not to respond, determinedly looking straight down at his gloved hands, knowing the exact shade of red that colors the wiring underneath. His silence speaks enough.

“Oh, Fel,” breathes Timur, and he tucks both arms around him in what Felwinter thinks is a hug. He’s kind enough to not mention how Felwinter’s whole frame trembles in his hold, “I won’t pretend to understand, but you can trust me, you know that, right?”

Felwinter says nothing. Timur continues to hold him, long after he’s stopped shaking.

The next day, they try again.

* * *

Two Warlocks sit side by side on the roof of a building in progress. The Traveler’s faint glow graces the crowns of both their helms.

Timur kicks his legs with childlike glee as the first lantern starts its slow ascent towards the stars overhead, gesturing excitedly in its direction. Felwinter feels his plates shift into a faint smile beneath his helm, only half paying attention as more lanterns join the first, lights flickering in the slight breeze. There’s excited chatter below them as Timur drags him back off the roof and into a lively night market, sticking close enough that Felwinter’s usual reluctance towards crowds doesn’t rear its head. They watch Efrideet nail target after target at a prize booth from afar, they hear Skorri telling an old story to a small gathered crowd, further away from the bustle. Even Saladin seems less stony than usual, talking animatedly with someone—

Felwinter tugs Timur away from the direction they were heading, and Timur follows without question, though he chances a glance over his shoulder at a one-horned helm.

It’s easy to forget when Timur finds a storefront selling all manner of flashy decorative gear, his excitement lighting up his whole face when he takes his hood off to speak more clearly with the merchant. Felwinter drifts nearby, paying more attention to the children chasing each other around the stalls when Timur nudges him and presses a cup of something into his hand, urging him to try it. It’s faintly sweet, warm, pleasant. Timur smiles wider when he tells him as much, leading him down another street and chattering about something or other.

“This new City sure knows how to throw a party,” Timur says, once they’ve settled atop yet another roof, high above the festivities so they can hear one other clearly, “Glad I dragged you out here?”

Felwinter ruminates, leaning back against the wall behind them, his feet dangling over the building’s edge, watching with vague amusement as Timur gets fidgety at his lack of a response. “Yes,” he replies, finally, and Timur swats at his arm, laughing.

“Oh!” Timur sits upright suddenly, rummaging through the pouches attached to his robes, “I nearly forgot, I got you something, hold on—”

Eventually, Timur produces a little wrapped package from one of the pouches, complete with a little handwritten note on a rather loud gift tag. “Before you say ‘you didn’t have to get me anything’,” Timur says, holding it out to him, “I got it because I _wanted_ to.”

Felwinter takes it from him, slowly, carefully peeling away layers of wrapping without tearing the pattern as well as he can with his gloves on, and within lies a shard of metal, strung onto leather, meant to be worn, he thinks.

“What is…” he starts, but he notices the exact type of metal, the faint sheen to it, “This is a piece of a Warsat.”

“Yeah, it’s, uh,” Timur laughs, rubbing the back of his head in sheepishness, “It sure is. Remember, way back, when we first started hunting bunkers together? That one that you pushed me out of the way of?”

“You went all the way there to get a shard of it?” Felwinter asks, gaze flicking to Timur’s face, flushed, perhaps because of the cold, or perhaps out of misplaced nerves, “For me?”

“Yeah, for you,” Timur answers, watching Felwinter watch him, “The idea popped into my head the other day, and I knew I had time to get out there and back without you noticing, but I _did_ have to convince Efrideet not to say—”

Felwinter puts a hand on Timur’s arm, effectively shutting him up; it’s rare that Felwinter is the one initiating any sort of contact between them, even now, nearly a year after his return to the Iron Temple, nearly a year since Timur told him in no unclear terms that he was to be trusted, and would trust in return.

Felwinter has yet to regret it.

“Thank you, Timur,” he says, and the other Warlock lights up again, Arc nearly singeing them both when he reaches up to loop the shard around his neck, clever hands tucking it into his robes.

“Happy Dawning, Fel,” Timur says, and Felwinter allows his one-armed embrace.

“Stop calling me that.”

* * *

Someone screams behind him. Jolder, maybe? It doesn’t matter.

Maybe it has never mattered.

He stares down the response to his query. He had asked if Rasputin would help humanity. Tried to tell him they meant no harm.

No words came.

He cuts, shoots, burns, disintegrates as many of the creeping red tendrils of latent SIVA as he can. They keep coming.

Timur is next to him when the order is given.

Seal the chamber, and them within it.

He watches with keen, abject horror as SIVA overtakes Timur’s frame. He spends his last moments reaching out to Felwinter, mouth open in a permanent shout before the Light leaves his eyes.

Felwinter jams both of his daggers into the center console, cursing Rasputin, cursing fate, cursing the universe.

Felspring’s cry is cut short as the red mass swallows her, and Felwinter laughs.

He was the fool all along.

* * *

Shaxx is standing at his usual station, moderating the midday Control match when a nervous delivery frame approaches him, “Lord Shaxx? Package for you.”

He counts down the end of the match, shouting, and turns to accept the package from the frame, dismissing them with a nod and a much quieter “Thank you.”

Within the box is a familiar, battered, well-read copy of _Hamlet_.

He turns it over in his hands several times, unsure if it’s really what he’s seeing. The delivery frame has already scuttled away to attend to other duties, but he doesn’t need to ask to know where the book came from and what it means.

The weight of regret settles over his shoulders, heavier than any physical burden he’s carried.

Shaxx turns to his workspace--a quick glance at the time shows he’s got a few minutes before the next match starts up. He flips through the brittle pages of his lost book, not even reading the words upon the page. He doesn’t have to; he’s had this memorized for years now. Arcite informs him the next round of Guardians is preparing for transmat, and he places the book carefully on the table before turning back to the screens, rolling his shoulders to shake off the melancholy.

* * *

_Many years later…_

“Fantastic as always, Guardian,” Shaxx remarks, clapping his favorite Guardian on the shoulder. They only stumble slightly, a true testament to their strength, as he continues, “But know that even steel needs sharpening! I will see you in there again soon, I’m sure.”

They nod and turn to leave, surely tired after a full day of Crucible competition, but the gun they carry on their back gives him pause, “A moment, Guardian. Where did you get that shotgun?”

They grab it off their back, looking it over with something like pride as their Ghost relays the information, “This one? It was quite a scavenger hunt to find it. Had to go to a really old Warmind bunker on the moon. Really old.”

“I see,” he comments, hoping his tone is even enough, because he knows this gun, maybe too well, “Well, best be going. I’m sure somebody needs something from you.”

“Don’t they always,” says the Ghost, and the Guardian gives him a little two-finger salute before sauntering off.

 _Shaxx?_ Puck says through the neural link, _Are you—_

 **Just fine** , he insists, turning towards the next Guardian in line to turn in their bounties.

Later that evening, once all the matches are over for the day and there are no more Guardians to talk to or congratulate, he climbs the steps that lead to Saladin’s little set up. All things considered, it’s a lucky thing that the last Iron Lord is here this week.

The man in question sits in front of his tent, staring directly into the fire in front of him. It’s plenty bright up here, with even more flames circling the emblem to his side. Saladin doesn’t look up at him as he settles in the empty chair next to him, a tight fit, he just drinks from the mug cupped in his hands.

“Long day?” Shaxx tries, and Saladin’s eyes flick over to him, narrowed. They’re still not on the best of terms, even now. Maybe especially now.

“What is it, Shaxx?” Saladin growls at him, or perhaps it’s just his normal tone. Hard to tell, these days. Everyone is tense.

There’s no use beating around the bush with him, so he jumps right to it, leaning back in the rickety chair, “Saw a Guardian using a peculiar shotgun to great effect in my Crucible today. Four-barreled. Solar-aligned. Marked with an Iron insignia. One of yours?”

Saladin shakes his head, gesturing to the table next to them, stacked with examples of what participants can earn, “No shotguns in this round of rewards.” He pauses to drink, seemingly mulling something over, “I only know of one weapon like that. It’s been a long time since I saw it, and I wouldn’t remake that one. Probably cursed.”

“Felwinter’s Lie,” Shaxx says, and Saladin’s head dips in a nod, confirming the worst, “Did anyone ever figure out why he named it that?”

“I don’t even think he knew,” Saladin laughs mirthlessly, setting his drink aside, “You know better than I do, at least.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, with only the ambient sounds of the City and the crackling fire between them to break the silence.

“Seeing phantoms, Saladin?” Shaxx asks, as the Iron Lord’s gaze returns to the flames.

Saladin shakes his head at him, “Some things are better left buried. You know that.”

A line from a Shakespeare tale he hasn’t revisited in a long, long time pops into his mind.

_“Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.”_

“Wily bastard,” he says, the phantom of an ache weighing him down.

And the world goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, before anyone goes on the offensive, the second ending will be up next, and will be the 'true' ending to this work. It will be more Felwinter/Shaxx focused and less compliant with canon, but will mirror the timeline and events of this 'ending'. It's still gonna be a little sad because it's Felwinter we're working with here. Hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am!  
> Please let me know your thoughts! I love reading and replying to everyone's comments!!  
> If you'd like to see previews of the next part/ramblings about destiny/other stuff from me, find me @maxcapacitygo on twitter!!


	7. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ It hits him like a satellite falling from the starless sky: Shaxx trusts him, and he trusts Shaxx, somehow, against everything that tells him not to. ]  
> What if Felwinter had chosen trust against paranoia? What if he let himself fall and be caught?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just wow. The support for this little passion project of mine has been unreal. Thank you so much for joining me on this journey. I won't put too much more here, but here's some lovely 'Playing Nice' inspired art to get you back in the swing of things after a month.
> 
> [This piece](https://twitter.com/searsage/status/1304481986283794432) inspired by the scene in Chapter 5  
> [This piece](https://twitter.com/stormfall10/status/1300385765101248512) inspired by events in Chapter 6
> 
> If you make any art inspired by my work PLEASE PLEASE let me know and let me see it!!! It blows my mind that people want to make stuff after reading my silly writing but it makes me so happy!!
> 
> One last thing before you jump in: keep in mind that the events of this chapter take place immediately following the events of Chapter 5--that means that this chapter REPLACES the events of Chapter 6. It might be a good idea to re-read just the end bit of Chapter 5 to set the scene.

The door to Shaxx’s quarters shuts behind them, and Felwinter wastes no time in setting the pace, nudging Shaxx up against the door in an imitation of their position earlier in the great hall. He gets a leg between the Warlord’s own and immediately starts in his search for the clasps and fastenings of his armor.

“What’s the rush?” Shaxx asks, as if he hasn’t been touching Felwinter nonstop since they got into the building.

“What was that earlier, about not keeping me waiting?” Felwinter quips in return, getting in close so he can press the seam of his mouth to Shaxx’s neck in warning. To his pleasant surprise, the Warlord tips his head to the side, even leaning down a bit so Felwinter has better access, which he immediately takes advantage of, unhooking the bits that hold part of his fur in place and tossing it aside.

“My apologies,” Shaxx rumbles, and Felwinter can feel it through his facial plates as he mouths at the sliver of skin visible just under his jaw.

Felwinter tugs at the straps holding Shaxx’s chest-piece in place, “You are wearing too much to be apologizing.”

“I could say the same of you,” Shaxx says, but he reaches to undo the damned clasps and Felwinter leans back just slightly, watching carefully so he can commit the movement to memory for next time.

Next time? When did he decide there was going to be a ‘next time’?

Shaxx’s chest armor falls to the floor with a clatter, followed shortly by his gauntlets, his gloves, his greaves, even the _ridiculous_ furred pauldrons. Felwinter clears his mind and takes a step back to watch, admitting to himself for the first time that it’s in appreciation, admiration that he watches. Certainly, they could both have their Ghosts get rid of all of this, but he is enjoying this process so far, and so is Shaxx, if the eager glances he keeps giving him are any indication.

Even without all the armor, Shaxx is _large_ —Felwinter notices, not for the first time, that he comes up to maybe Shaxx’s collar if they both stand upright, a pillar of strength before him.

No matter. There are many ways to work around that, and he doesn’t mind a challenge.

Shaxx steps back into his space, bare hands littered with tiny, jagged scars coming to rest at Felwinter’s sides, “I believe you’re still overdressed for the occasion.”

“Then fix that,” Felwinter instructs him, and Shaxx’s lips curl upwards as he starts undoing the clasps of Felwinter’s long coat.

While Shaxx works on fishing him out of his coat, Felwinter gets familiar with the scape of Shaxx’s broad chest through his form-fitting undersuit, tracing the lines of muscle he can follow with unhurried hands, kneading with firm fingers at the flesh beneath and appreciating the uneven breath in he gets in reward.

When Shaxx reaches for his arm, aiming to unlace the straps of his arm guards, Felwinter lets him, watching him closely as the Warlord busies himself with the task, meticulously working off the guard, and then his glove, cradling Felwinter’s bare hand in his own. Shaxx pauses, eyeing Felwinter’s face for a moment before he carefully brings the back of Felwinter’s hand up and to his lips. It’s the tiniest, softest touch, and yet Felwinter feels instantly like he’s been lit on fire because of it.

Shaxx seems to know _exactly_ what he’s done if his cheeky little grin is any indication, and Felwinter’s next thought is **two can play at that game**.

He tugs at the high collar of Shaxx’s undershirt, rolling it down enough that he can press his mouth to the junction of his jaw and his throat, and though he lacks a tongue to lave against the skin there, his efforts are answered with a soft, faltering sound as Shaxx’s hold on his hand slackens.

Sliding his hand free, he reaches up to tilt Shaxx’s head to the side, fingers resting at the back of his head, and though he also lacks teeth with which to bite, he manages the slightest pinch of skin with his mouth, a well-practiced maneuver. The Warlord tenses under his hands and mouth, a faint curse falling from above Felwinter’s head, “You don’t hold back here, either.”

Felwinter’s face shifts minutely, a semblance of a grin, mouth pressed to Shaxx’s neck, “Did you expect me to?”

There’s a soft sigh, then a “No,” as Shaxx reaches a bit shakily for Felwinter’s other hand, treating it with the same near-reverence as its mirror.

It feels…strange, to be admired in such a way, to be Shaxx’s sole focus, even in such a minor way. They’re still mostly clothed and yet, somehow, this seems more intimate, more intense than when he was caged against the bath a week or so ago. Shaxx manages to get the glove off his other hand, and Felwinter focuses, too, on keeping his hand steady as the Warlord presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, where one of the several external sensors scattered across his frame sits. His fingers light up with feedback, twitching slightly, and Shaxx pauses, eyeing Felwinter across the tiny gap between them with something like realization dawning in his eyes.

Felwinter steps back, tugging Shaxx towards the massive bed by the collar of his undershirt before he gets any more ideas, and Shaxx follows willingly, seemingly unable to be more than a foot away from him.

When Felwinter perches on the edge of the bed to remove his boots (he’s not without _standards_ ), Shaxx stops him with a gentle hand on his leg. “May I?” he asks, and though he’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to, he nods.

Shaxx sinks to his knees in front of him, slowly, and Felwinter watches him with equal parts apprehension and interest. One of the Warlord’s hands cups the back of his calf and the other starts on the laces of his boots, and Felwinter realizes with a start that Shaxx is still following his instructions to disrobe him.

Realistically, he knows he should be alarmed at having his legs handled by large hands that have, on multiple occasions, knocked his head clean off his neck. And yet, when he steadies himself with his hands on the bed, looking down at Shaxx, there is no alarm--just a mimicry of a pulse rushing in his ears and…something else? _Excitement_ , Felspring notes, and Felwinter takes her word for it.

Shaxx works the boot off his left leg, effectively halting his train of thought when he leans in to brush his lips against his still-clothed leg, just below his knee, looking up at him like he’s something to be admired.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, because he’s never quite been able to let things lie, and Shaxx just chuckles at him, the nerve of him.

“Because I can,” he says, working on the other boot, fingers curving to lift his leg for better leverage, “And because I want to.” While Felwinter sits there, dumbfounded, Shaxx gently works his other boot off, then quickly kicks his own off to the side with far less care, settling in front of him once more, looking up with what Felwinter gradually realizes is expectation.

That lights something up in him, and he beckons Shaxx with a curl of his fingers, leaning back as Shaxx rises to cast his shadow over him, hands settling on either side of his frame, eyes dark with intent. The Warlord stops just inches shy of his face, holding his weight just above Felwinter’s body, and Felwinter reaches up to cup the back of his head, reeling him in for a proper kiss.

Shaxx kisses like he fights—no holds barred, powerfully, with intent. There’s a shadow of sweetness, of softness, that surprises Felwinter as he maps the curve of Shaxx’s scored jaw with his palm. Felwinter inches back on the bed, and Shaxx follows him, getting a knee up onto it so he’s got better leverage. It’s like neither of them can quite get enough, and though Felwinter briefly wonders if his lack of facilities to properly reciprocate bothers Shaxx at all, the Warlord’s enthusiasm leaves little room for doubt.

Eventually, Shaxx pulls back, breath heavy, and Felwinter doesn’t bother masking his disappointment, a little scoff of restlessness escaping him. Shaxx tugs a bit sloppily at his own shirt, throwing it past his shoulder blindly and if _that_ doesn’t do things for Felwinter, the eagerness with which he reaches for the hem of Felwinter’s own high-collared shirt sure does.

“May I?” Shaxx asks again, and with his nod, they both manage to get him free of the clingy damn thing. It’s wonder it doesn’t get ripped in the process, but Shaxx seems to be holding himself back for some reason, using barely a fraction of the strength Felwinter _knows_ his thick arms suggest.

“Why are you—” he tries, but he gets cut off by his own involuntary noise, caught somewhere between delight and revulsion when Shaxx dips his head to mouth at his uncovered collar, perhaps accidentally brushing against one of the sensors placed there among cabling and coils of synthetic muscle. Shaxx looks up at him, more than a hint of a smirk in his features—perhaps it _wasn’t_ an accident--and Felwinter has to grip the back of his neck to get him to stop.

“Why are you being so…soft?” he finally manages, fixing the Warlord with a sharp look, “I am not made of glass, and you’ve had no qualms quite literally tearing me apart before.”

“That was different,” Shaxx replies, heaving himself up onto the bed fully, on his side now, but still pressed close as he can be to Felwinter. He props himself up on one elbow as his other hand dips to trace the planes of Felwinter’s torso, “Now that I have you here, I want to…appreciate you.” There’s a pause as Shaxx grips his side with a hint more of that maddening strength, “Unless you _want_ to be torn apart—"

“No,” Felwinter shakes his head quickly, sitting up and guiding Shaxx with his hands, urging him up to the head of the bed, against the pillows, the headboard, “Not now,” and it feels…strange, admitting that there may be a ‘next time’ out loud, “For now, we can…’appreciate’.”

And there is quite a lot to appreciate, now that he’s got Shaxx laid out like this in front of him. Feeling rather more daring now, he moves to straddle his lap, and Shaxx happily makes room for him, already visibly interested in Felwinter’s intent. He traces the line of a particularly jagged scar that cuts a rough path down most of Shaxx’s ribcage, and the Warlord shivers underneath him. He kneads at the firm flesh of one of his pectorals, and Shaxx reaches up to put his palm against Felwinter’s abdomen, near his waist, thumbing at carmine wiring in apparent wonder.

“Sublime,” he breaths out, and Felwinter has to hold back the shudder that threatens to shake his shoulders, keen instead on finding all the little places he can reach that make Shaxx’s breath hitch, that make him worry his lip between his teeth. In retaliation, Shaxx traces wiring upwards to one of the red lights socketed near where his own ribs would be, pressing his finger with definite intent against the external sensor tucked beside it.

Felwinter tries to spare him a reprimanding look, but it’s fairly difficult to do so when one’s whole body is lit up with stimulus. “How did you know—” he starts, but Shaxx’s thumb presses over the sensor again, quicker this time and he clicks his modulator off just in time to avoid a rather whiny sound. “Just a hunch,” Shaxx replies, and he looks smug beneath him, too smug, so Felwinter leans down, swiftly, to nip at Shaxx’s neck again, pressing him further into the bed with his bulk. One large hand settles on his back, tracing up and down his spinal column in a manner that his mind would usually declare a threat, but with Shaxx groaning just above his head, that notion is quickly dismissed.

Felwinter works a series of marks down the line of Shaxx’s neck, each growing incrementally in intensity, and the Warlord responds in kind, lighting up sensors along Felwinter’s back he hasn’t felt in _ages_. When Shaxx’s breathing runs ragged and he’s shifting under Felwinter with each touch, Felwinter sits back up, bracing himself with a hand against his undulating chest, looking over his handiwork.

There are already faint marks forming along the side of Shaxx’s throat, a neat straight line that crosses over a few of the smaller scars marking his skin. Felwinter traces his index finger down the line, relishing in the way it makes Shaxx swallow as he gets his breath back.

Suddenly, there’s a spark zipping up his spine, then back down, Arc lighting up the sets of sensors lining his back, and he pitches forward, catching himself with both hands now planted against the firm muscle of Shaxx’s chest as a strangled, garbled noise surges forth. When he’s able to look up again, Shaxx is staring up at him with something like awe, his hands still in place at his back.

“Magnificent,” he says, and Felwinter slides off of him, wordlessly, quickly, hands immediately reaching for what little clothing the Warlord still has on.

“Was that too much?” Shaxx asks with a note of concern, helping in Felwinter’s efforts to get them both undressed more quickly, and Felwinter pauses, pressing a hand surrounded with Solar heat to the underside of Shaxx’s bare thigh.

“No, not enough,” he replies, not even trying to hide the shake in his voice, and then Shaxx is rushing, too.

They end up with Felwinter atop him, again, but now Shaxx sits further upright, leaning back against the headboard with his hands everywhere he can reach on Felwinter’s frame, paying special attention to each and every sensor he can find. Occasionally a surge of Arc energy dances across his frame and with how sporadic Shaxx’s breathing is getting, it’s hard to tell if its intentional or not. It feels…exhilarating, surprisingly—the edge of _danger run bad not good run fight run_ that is usually present during his…experiences with Timur is _not_ present here and now, with Shaxx’s hands touching him like he’s simultaneously delicate and mighty.

Felwinter gives as good as he gets, of course; there is no way he’ll let Shaxx get away with nothing for his efforts. He reaches back behind him, to finally get a good feel for Shaxx’s cock, and the Warlord’s hands stumble on their way to the next set of sensors along Felwinter’s chest as he gives him a few solid, slow strokes. When he chances a glance upwards, Shaxx’s jaw is clenched, eyes wild with a mixture of want and _need_.

Part of him demands that he look away, that it’s too much, but most of him insists that he drink it in, relish in it, and he does, smearing beading white over the tip of Shaxx’s cock just to watch his expression go dark.

When Shaxx reaches for him, in turn, there’s only the slightest bit of hesitance, careful fingers skirting the edge of his mod. “It’s a generic mod,” he grits out, trying his damndest not to rut into Shaxx’s hand immediately, as keyed up as he already is, “Works as most things do.”

Curiosity colors Shaxx’s face as he touches him in earnest, and Felwinter loses most of his focus at the gentle way the Warlord’s fingers stroke up, down, around the skin-like texture of his mod, watching Felwinter carefully for reactions. It feels…unexpectedly empowering, to be focused on like this, with Shaxx touching him because he _wants_ to, with seemingly no ulterior motives. His brain kicks back to higher functionality and he resumes his attention on Shaxx, too, just a slight tinge of Void energy in his hands to make things more…interesting.

He gets the reaction he wanted, Shaxx’s pace jerking to a halt again as he curses, narrowed eyes drifting up to Felwinter’s face, “You--What was that?”

In response, Felwinter raises his other hand where Shaxx can see it, glowing with a sheen of violet before he traces a smooth, cool line down Shaxx’s chest, the Warlord’s eyes going wide with a satisfying gasp.

“Crafty,” he rasps out, then he’s pushing Arc through his own fingertips that races over Felwinter’s thighs and courses over his mod, pulling a low noise from him that he might never admit to.

When he groans low, again, as Shaxx cups his hand around him more closely, the Warlord’s whole body shudders, and Felwinter can feel coolant rushing through him in a keen effort to keep his temperature stable. He twists his hand around Shaxx’s cock, and Shaxx reaches out with one hand to still his efforts, “Wait.”

When he turns to look at him, a bit incredulous, Shaxx shakes his head, then shuffles underneath him until they’re pressed more closely front-to-front, his cock trapped between them. There’s a flash of Shaxx’s Ghost, visible for just a second before it’s gone again, and Shaxx has a bottle of something in his hand that he _definitely_ wasn’t holding before.

“It’ll make this smoother,” he pants, and Felwinter reaches for the bottle instantly, uncapping it and slicking Shaxx up rather hurriedly; he’s past the point of playing patient, now he’s just chasing the strange border between safe and unsafe, delight and apprehension. Shaxx reaches over to use the excess to rub his whole hand over Felwinter’s mod, covering him easily, and Felwinter feels like his entire frame is shaking as he pushes forward against Shaxx once his hand is out of the way. Shaxx’s hand settles back at Felwinter’s waist as he tentatively ruts against him, too, and his mind goes mostly blank except for demands of _more_.

They move in earnest, grinding in tandem, and Felwinter feels it in his core that he’s not going to last long at all like this, pressed so close to Shaxx that his breath is fogging the metal at the top of his head. A glance upwards reveals that Shaxx isn’t far behind if his hazy expression is any indication. Felwinter steadies himself as well as he can like this, holding onto Shaxx’s shoulder for leverage when inspiration strikes him. He reaches up just a bit further, fingers wrapped loosely around Shaxx’s throat, making sure to get eye contact from him, “Good?”

“Light above, yes,” Shaxx groans, hands tightening their hold on Felwinter as his hand constricts around his throat, squeezing just enough for Shaxx’s breathing to go strained. The Warlord’s Light surges over Felwinter in an electrifying rush and all of his senses white out for a brief moment as he climaxes without warning, hand twitching around Shaxx’s neck, and the Warlord rasps out his name as he chases him down that cliff. Felwinter reaches down with his free hand to work him through it, feeling rather magnanimous, and Shaxx gasps and shudders, arms pulling him close to his chest as it heaves.

Afterwards, it’s quiet for a long moment, just the whirring of his fans, the faint push-pull of coolant running through him, and Shaxx’s breaths evening out again. Just as his brain is racing to catch him up with the awful thoughts he usually gets hit with after doing anything like this, Shaxx’s hand cups the back of his head, his other arm slung around him with the ease of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

“We’re dirty,” Felwinter says after a long moment spent figuring out what’s going on. _Of course, he’s a cuddler,_ Felspring snorts in his head.

“We can clean up later,” Shaxx grunts at him, laying further back against the veritable mountain of pillows he keeps for some reason, the side of his face pressed to the top of Felwinter’s head as he takes him with him, “You’ve worn me out.”

“I’ve worn _you_ out?” he asks, and Shaxx squeezes him, but gives no verbal response. The Warlord’s heartbeat is quick but steady underneath his temple and it’s…nice, actually. Comfortable. Shaxx is still running plenty warm, and so is he, but despite that and the stickiness between them, he feels…alright.

No rushing thoughts, no racing ‘pulse’. No dread in the pit of his core, no fight-or-flight complex rearing its ugly head.

Just him and Shaxx, curled together as if they were always meant to be like this.

He turns his head to look at him properly, and Shaxx is looking at him too, an extraordinarily fond expression on his face as he lazily traces the curve of Felwinter’s head.

It hits him like a satellite falling from the starless sky: Shaxx _trusts_ him, and he trusts Shaxx, somehow, against everything that tells him not to. Why else would he be here right now, being held like he’s _dear_ to the Warlord, other than that, somehow, he is? And why else would he be holding on to Shaxx in return?

* * *

Those thoughts stick with him long after they finally leave Shaxx’s bed, after they head down to the bath and go another round there, even after he’s settled in his own quarters for the evening, eventually pulling away from Shaxx’s embrace to retreat to the sanctity of his own mind.

Even a night to himself--spent analyzing what happened and how he’d gotten here--doesn’t change the warm feeling suffusing his core when he sees Shaxx the next morning. He has Felspring give him a deep neuro-scan to see if anything’s been displaced but she insists that the warmth he feels is to be expected, that it’s _normal_.

She then proceeds to tease him relentlessly, of course.

Shaxx himself doesn’t seem to notice any difference, at least, but he’s even more tactile than before, always looking for an opportunity to be closer to Felwinter.

They have their daily bout in the morning, still, but now Shaxx appraises him with something _more_ in his stance when he helps him up, and his hands linger now without shame or hesitance, just because he can.

In the afternoon, Shaxx often heads down to the village to help with repair efforts—the damage from the storm had been minimal but serious enough for the Lightless to warrant quick work in case another late storm decided to tear through the territory before winter’s end. He never leaves without telling Felwinter he’s going, though, often inviting him as well. Felwinter doesn’t always accept, still a bit cautious around the people (though they seemed to have warmed up to him considerably). If he chooses not to, Shaxx just reaches for his hand, just to hold it for moment before he leaves, or on bolder days, he’ll wrap an arm around him to pull him close, and it never fails to send him reeling.

If he does accept, they trundle down the steep hill together to whichever building needs the most attention that day. Shaxx holds heavy beams in place for support, the folks who have the most architectural or engineering knowledge following him, making adjustments here and there. Felwinter closes gaps in the infrastructure as well as he can, Solar Light emanating from his hands as he welds struts together. The townsfolk remark, sometimes, that the work goes by quicker with _two_ Risen to help, and Felwinter suggests, just once, that they find Shaxx’s strength lacking.

Those remarks stop being made, but now Shaxx is laden with more praise than ever. Felwinter tucks his own laughter into the corner of his mouth, unheard by most but noticed by the Warlord, if his disappointed glance is any sign.

In the evenings, now, they often end up back in the library, but just like in his uncanny visions from before, Shaxx nudges their chairs closer together, offering naught but a shrug and a coy little smile when Felwinter asks him about the change.

He can’t find a reason to protest.

They talk, like they have before, about the books, the words on the pages. Now, though, sometimes they talk of other things. Shaxx asks questions about _him_ instead of about just his thoughts on a character or a verse, about what he likes, what he’s experienced. At first it unnerves him, reminds him of prying questions about his inner workings. There’s enthusiasm there, though, in the set of Shaxx’s jaw, in the way he leans forward to rest his elbow on the armrests as he listens.

He lets it pass as Shaxx’s curiosity remains just that, curiosity. He slowly starts asking questions, too, about Shaxx’s favorite coffee, the most interesting place he’s been, the worst ‘offering’ one of the townspeople has tried to give him. Shaxx lights up at that, going on about the roast of the beans, or the arid climate of a desert, or the family recipe for pumpkin pie.

Felwinter finds he can’t look away. Shaxx’s whole countenance moves with his storytelling; as he weaves a clever turn of phrase his lips twist upwards, when he recounts a heavier account, his eyebrows furrow together. It’s…captivating in a way Felwinter has never experienced.

“You’d get along well with Skorri,” he says, wry, and that launches Shaxx into even more questions; about the other Iron Lords, the Temple, the peak, the observatory. Felwinter keeps up as well as he can, all the while wondering exactly when he got comfortable enough with a Warlord to tell him about the Iron Lords.

It could be seen as treasonous, he knows, to share this kind of information with a Warlord who has not accepted their terms, but when Shaxx’s face contorts with a laugh as Felwinter recounts the time the wolves snuck off with half of Gheleon’s bones, he can’t find a reason to worry further.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, when Shaxx’s questions go more into the Lords themselves, “Planning on joining up?”

“Not exactly,” Shaxx chuckles, reclining in his chair, looking a touch shy, “I figure it might make things easier when I come visit if I already know at least some names.”

“You want to visit the peak?” Felwinter asks, trying to envision Shaxx walking through the high-ceilinged halls, helping stoke the fires.

Shaxx is quiet for a moment, and when Felwinter looks over to gauge his body language, the Warlord is looking at him with intent, fingers woven together and a shine in his eyes, “I’d like to come visit _you_ , and you just so happen to live there. So, yes.”

“Technically, I stay in the observatory,” Felwinter says, to cover for the fact that he feels nearly unbearably warm all of a sudden, which has nothing to do with the fire crackling nearby.

Shaxx studies him a moment longer, a hint of hesitance in his next words, “Would you like that? If I came to visit?”

Felwinter tries again, to see Shaxx on the grounds the Iron Lords have claimed as their home, but his thoughts keep drifting to just the two of them. Both walking across the snowy bridge to the huge doors, warmth flaring through them as they step into the entryway, firepit blazing in the center. The wolves snuffling wetly at their heels as they move from building to building, past the sparring grounds to the armory. Felwinter leading Shaxx up the stairs to the very top of the ancient observatory where he makes his own space, where no one else has been invited before.

“Yes,” he finally says, and Shaxx exhales a long breath across from him, “I would like that.”

* * *

Shaxx settles beside him with a huff, curling an arm around his frame as they both lay on his massive bed after he’s finished quite thoroughly ‘cleaning’ Felwinter’s mod with his mouth. There’s a quiet moment spent catching breath and reflecting before Felwinter asks, “Why do you look at me like that?”

“We’ve been through this before, haven’t we?” Shaxx rumbles in return, scooting back just a tad so he can look at him, eyebrows drawn together, “I look because I can, and I want to.”

“ _Why_ do you do that, in that manner?” Felwinter says, distantly observing one of the scars that mark Shaxx’s chest, “You look at me like I am something to be admired.”

“Because you _are_ ,” Shaxx says simply, and Felwinter’s fans kick up again with a weak protest, “You are some _one_ to be admired, in my eyes.”

“How can you admire me,” he asks, perhaps a bit fainter, “When you know so little about me?”

“We may not know one another particularly well, but,” Shaxx raises a hand to slowly cup Felwinter’s sharp jaw, almost covetous, “I’d like to change that, if you would.”

“It’s a bit late to be asking that, isn’t it?” Felwinter deflects, but he lets Shaxx’s hand linger, thumb tracing the outer edge of the plates that frame his face.

“Never hurts to check,” Shaxx retorts, and Felwinter doesn’t know how to disagree, or if he even wants to.

* * *

The days pass. It occurs to Felwinter that his time away from the peak is coming to a close. For some reason, it makes him feel…off.

_Sad_ , Felspring says, _You’re feeling sad_.

He supposes he is. It’s a bit of melancholy pockmarked by several disappearances on Shaxx’s end. He mentions, as he has been, that he’s heading into town, but he’s stopped inviting Felwinter along. He wonders briefly if he’s done something wrong, and it must be more obvious in his posture than he’d thought because by the third day, Shaxx is quick to assure him. “Nothing’s the matter. There have just been rumors from travelers that there have been a few Warlords sighted nearby. I don’t think they’re going to come into town, but…”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Felwinter inclines his head, “Understandable. I don’t wish to bring any harm to the townspeople.”

Shaxx’s shoulders sag with apparent relief, and he tugs Felwinter in for what he eventually recognizes as an embrace, “Thank you. I’ll be back before sundown.”

Felwinter reaches up haltingly, experimentally wrapping his arms around the Warlord’s broad physique as well, and Shaxx tucks him closer in return, arms compact around him.

“Alright,” he eventually says, voice muffled against Shaxx’s armor plate, and Shaxx releases him slowly, taking a step back, towards the door.

A few days pass in much the same way, Shaxx comes and goes, always letting Felwinter know when he leaves and seeking him out when he returns. When it’s just him, by himself in the castle, he keeps his helmet on, all too aware of the recently-patched window in the great hall, but whenever Shaxx comes back from the town, brimming with satisfaction, the first thing the Warlord does is take off his helmet. Then, he’ll usually approach Felwinter, asking permission to take his off, too, so he can press a kiss or two to his face properly. It becomes almost a ritual, something Felwinter realizes he looks forward to, despite his usual aversion to most affection.

Part of him is curious as to why Shaxx is so careful to keep his helmet on when not within the walls of his own castle, but Felwinter can understand, he thinks. He traces one of the gashes cut out of Shaxx’s cheekbone with careful fingers one morning, thinking of the fear in the eyes of the people who caught a glimpse of Felwinter passing through their town before he’d had the chance to make a decent helm for himself.

“I first woke in a museum,” Shaxx says, as if he’s read his mind, staying still as Felwinter continues idly mapping the contours of his face, “Most of the scarring was already there. I was Risen like this.”

Felwinter’s fingers pause at that as a flash of irrational anger spikes through him—who had hurt Shaxx like this? Who or what had decided to lash out at him?

He forces his fingers to stay pliant, thumb brushing over a jagged cut scored into the edge of his eye socket, just listening as Shaxx continues, “There were already Fallen scavenging the place when Puck raised me for the first time. Had to clean the place out with just a spear snatched from one of the exhibits.”

Felwinter shifts, careful not to jostle Shaxx’s head in his lap as he does so, “A spear? I’m sure you could’ve handled that with just your hands.”

“There were a lot of Fallen,” Shaxx’s lips curl under Felwinter’s fingers and he looks up at him, curiosity in his eyes again, “What about you? A nightclub? A crashed ship? Oh, maybe a ranch?”

Felwinter simulates a deep breath to steady himself, carefully picking through what he knows he can get away with saying, “A library. I was alone, or I thought I was. There was…an explosion,” he keeps his hands moving, through Shaxx’s short hair, “Felspring was nearly in a panic. Told me there were people nearby who were going to want to hurt me, and that they’d ask me for my name.”

“Did you know your name?” Shaxx asks, eyes trained on his face with consideration.

“No, she gave me my name,” he says, and it feels both liberating and terrifying, telling Shaxx these things he’s never told anyone else, “And I gave her one of her own to match.”

The next afternoon, Felwinter is working through a sequence of steps meant to keep himself light on his feet, hard to hit. Really, he’s using it as an excuse to keep his mind off the looming threats of the Warlords, his departure, and the ever-present siren song of the Warmind bunker.

The damn thing is singing to him, specifically, he knows it. The droning of Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony pulses through the air, sickening if he lets himself focus on it, so he doesn’t—he forces himself to stay occupied.

_Busy hands, busy mind_ , Felspring notes wryly, and he hums his assent.

Shaxx makes his return from the town known, rapping on the stone archway leading into the courtyard as he steps through it, “Back at it again, Winter?”

“Yes,” he replies, sliding out of his stance. Then, in realization: “…What did you just call me?”

“I, er,” Shaxx nearly stumbles over the patchy dead grass on his way to Felwinter, slinging his helmet off and into particles with one hand, revealing a slightly nervous expression. The hand other remains surreptitiously behind his back, but he continues towards him, “Winter. Shortened part of your name.” Felwinter studies his expression with narrowed optics and finds no threats, merely oddities, and Shaxx asks, “Is it alright for me to call you that?”

“I…suppose,” he answers, caught off guard both by the pet name and the polite request to use it. He is not one to be deterred, however, and he gestures to Shaxx’s other arm, “What are you trying to hide there?”

Shaxx visibly stiffens and then sighs, almost overly dramatic. “That’s good, but I’m going to have to find better ways to surprise you,” he mutters, reaching up with his free hand to tap the side of Felwinter’s helm, “Take this off and I’ll show you. I want to see your face when you see it.”

With only a little more hesitance than usual, Felwinter pulls off his helm, letting Felspring whisk it away, leaning around Shaxx to see exactly what ‘it’ is, “Surprise me? What is this about?”

“Hold on,” Shaxx chortles, finally bringing his hand around to reveal…a box. Slim, unassuming. There could be almost anything in there, provided it’s shorter than his forearm.

Shaxx flips the box around to offer it to him with both hands, eyes flicking between it and him with some amount of suspense. “Go on,” he says, when Felwinter doesn’t immediately move to take it, “I made this for you.”

Felwinter takes the box in hand, and it’s a bit heavier than he was expecting, when he clicks it open, inside is: “A…dagger?”

Shaxx nods, quick, eyes trained on his face, “Yes. Made for you. Took longer than if someone who really knew what they were doing had done it, but the smith told me to make it myself if I was going to be so particular about the damn thing—” Shaxx clears his throat, gesturing to the box, “Anyway. Yes.”

Felwinter listens intently, running a finger down the blade of the knife, then lifting it out of the box, appraising it.

Solid weight, good counterbalance. Seemingly meant to be both thrown and wielded in the hand. Ornamental, but still perfectly functional. When he twists it to examine the clean edge, something sheens in the weak sunlight that catches the blade. Words, he realizes.

“Winter’s Wit,” he reads aloud, and when he realizes exactly what it’s referring to, he feels almost like sparks are flying from his core. “You made this, for me?” he asks, looking at the Warlord from the corner of his eye, and when Shaxx nods, Felspring sighs, _So this is what he’s been going into town to work on. He remembered that? And made a knife, all by himself, just for you?_

Shaxx is nearly vibrating next to him in what seems to be anticipation, and when he tears his gaze away from the dagger to look at him, the Warlord smiles, tentative, knowing, “…So? What’s the verdict?”

“Hm,” Felwinter hides the smile that threatens to make itself known in his tone, turning to toss the knife up and down a few times, smooth. A single dead leaf blows by on a weak wind, and Felwinter slings the knife at it, whip-like. Shaxx visibly perks up next to him, and in the next moment, the knife is embedded in the bark of the old tree resting at the far side of the courtyard, the leaf caught between the two.

Shaxx lets out a long, slow breath as Felwinter goes to retrieve his new gift, and Felwinter studies his face for a moment as he stows the dagger next to his old one on his thigh, then retrieves the box. Shaxx slowly unclenches both his jaw and his fist, and Felwinter can almost hear his quickened heartbeat from across the way.

“It passes,” he says, just a note of tease in his tone, and he feels daring enough to lay a hand against the side of Shaxx’s face as he approaches. “Thank you,” he says, and he finds he means it, turning to head back inside.

He makes it about six and a half steps down the hallway before Shaxx starts catching up, chasing him down the corridor.

He starts running, lets himself be chased, and relishes it.

* * *

Days later, he lets Shaxx persuade him into what the Warlord generously calls a ‘massage’, but he suspects it’s merely an excuse to see him unclothed, to touch him. When he dryly voices this thought, perhaps against his better judgement, Shaxx chuckles behind him, thumbs already kneading at the padding of his bare shoulders.

“You wound me,” he says, all pageantry, as he runs his fingers across the slope of his shoulders, “Do you really think so low of me?”

“You didn’t have to take off your shirt, too,” Felwinter remarks, though he really isn’t complaining, suppressing the shudder that teeters along the main supports of his torso.

Shaxx snorts at him, a gruff thing, as he presses his fingers around and into the more flesh-like synthetic muscle that curves around what would be his shoulder blades, “It enhances the experience.”

Felwinter is about to ask how so, but the Warlord pulls him back by one shoulder until he’s tucked right against his bare chest. His mind races with flashes of when they last sat like this, and Shaxx must know because he can feel the fool grinning against the side of his head.

“What do you get out of this?” he asks, trying to drag his head away from there and back into the present, and Shaxx stiffens behind him.

He’s certain he’s asked a bad question until Shaxx sighs against him, “Do I have to ‘get’ anything out of this? Can I not just do this because I _want_ to?”

“I…” Felwinter feels his synapses misfire once or twice before they click back into sync with the rest of him as he struggles to comprehend Shaxx’s question. “I suppose you can,” he eventually settles on, as Shaxx’s fingers resume their press along his spine, “Though I’m not sure I understand why.”

Shaxx is quiet for a long moment, and Felwinter is lulled into complacency as the Warlord’s fingers somehow ease tension from his frame by degrees, but when Shaxx speaks again, it’s much softer, “The other day, you sat with my head in your lap, just touching what you saw. Did you ask yourself why you were doing it, or did it just feel like something you _could_ do, so you did?”

This gives him pause, and while he thinks, Shaxx rubs slow circles into his lower back, his sides. “It wasn’t something I actively thought about,” he admits, and Shaxx’s hands pause, then resume, “The opportunity was there, and I suppose I wanted to, so I did.”

“Then you understand,” Shaxx replies, tapping his fingers idly against his side, “My face isn’t…something I show many people. The fact that you wanted to touch it or see it at all still surprises me.”

Felwinter can’t properly see the Warlord’s face at the moment, but he can see it clear as day in his mind’s eye, down to the last sliver of a scar across his jaw. His fingers have traced each one of those scars already, mapped their texture, shape, and depth. The gouge taken out of his brow. The set of tiny, jagged cuts along the side of his face. Those, and many more—and while Felwinter understands, perhaps more than anybody, the need to conceal one’s countenance, he’s still not sure what brings out this shyness in Shaxx.

“Why do you keep it hidden so often?” he finds himself asking, and Shaxx breathes out one long breath.

“Most other people, even other Risen—they don’t look like this,” he offers, though it’s a bit stunted, a little forced, “Other people don’t usually want to see…this. It unnerves them, or scares them. Not really a great face for someone to look up to.”

At the way Shaxx’s tone drops near the end, Felwinter twists around to look at him squarely, not fond of the way he’s speaking. He takes Shaxx’s scored chin in hand, none too gently, forcing his gaze downwards where Felwinter can meet it for a long moment, ignoring the Warlord’s grunt of surprise.

He lets his optics carefully trace each aspect of Shaxx’s face, and all the while the Warlord sits completely still, hands stalled at Felwinter’s waist. After about half a minute, he releases him, shaking his head and turning back around, settling once again, “I won’t pretend to understand them. It’s simply foolishness on their part.”

Shaxx doesn’t move, still, for a moment, and then, slowly, gently, Felwinter feels Shaxx’s arms close around him, his forehead pressed to where Felwinter’s neck and shoulders meet. “You have quite a way with words,” Shaxx says, trying for jest and falling a bit short when his voice wavers just the slightest bit.

Felwinter doesn’t mention it, simply letting Shaxx hold him.

* * *

Most days, he can hear the cryptic music emanating from the bunker below his feet. Most days, he can block it out, focus on something else, on some _one_ else.

Sometimes, though, it tears him viciously away from his train of thought or action, and sometimes Shaxx notices.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, if you want,” Shaxx intones, one night, curled around Felwinter’s frame, an offer with low pressure.

“I know,” Felwinter says, and some of the tension bleeds from his back, “I know.”

* * *

Two days before the collective Iron Lords and Warlords are supposed to gather at the far end of Shaxx’s territory, far way from the Lightless people Shaxx protects, they are sitting in the library, reading, quietly. Peaceful, even—a word Felwinter is begrudgingly starting to associate with the Warlord across from him. Shaxx meets his eye over the cover of his book and smiles like there’s a secret only the two of them know.

“I’ll be heading down to the town’s center tomorrow,” he says, voice still a bit hoarse from when Felwinter had been making him shout last night, “Have to make sure everyone is prepared in case things go sideways. Well,” he shakes his head and a shadow of doubt crosses his face, “As prepared as they can be.”

“No harm will befall them,” Felwinter insists, flipping the page of his own book, multitasking as usual, “We will make sure of it. Have you figured out what you’re going to say to the Iron Lords?”

“Yes, though I’m more concerned with what I’m going to say to the others,” Shaxx grimaces a bit, then he reaches across the meager gap for Felwinter’s hand, “Will you join me tomorrow? I’m sure at least a few people would like to say goodbye.”

It surprises him, both the offer and the idea that any of the townspeople think of him when he’s not among them at all, let alone positively. The music from the Warmind bunker he’s been trying steadily to ignore all day swells to a shrill tone and he sets his book aside. Shaxx’s face across from him holds nothing but open trust, and that, along with his open hand, yet another invitation, makes something within in him _snap_.

“I need to show you something,” he says, standing quite suddenly, and Felspring jumps to full alert in his mind, _What are you doing?!_

**Something I should’ve done from the start, perhaps** , he replies.

_I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into_ , she says, but it’s less scolding and more understanding, now, than it might’ve been before.

Shaxx, to his credit, seems only mildly startled. Perhaps he’s getting used to Felwinter’s…eccentricities. The thought makes him feel volatile.

“What is it, Winter?” Shaxx asks, sounding only a little troubled, moving to stand, too. He holds both hands out now, palms facing upwards, “Something the matter?”

“No. Yes. It’s,” he hears himself make a frustrated noise, trying to jolt the sharp sound of the cursed music out of his auditory stream, “Complicated.”

Shaxx steps closer to take one of his hands between both of his own, sandwiching it between them, “And you want to show me something?”

Felwinter nods and lets himself be grounded by the Warlord; by the feeling of his hand being held, by Shaxx’s steady breathing, his pulse. “Can I ask you to trust me once more?” he asks, feeling a strange calm settle over him when Shaxx nods instantly, easily.

“Of course,” the Warlord murmurs, and Felwinter leads him out the door.

They’re both quiet as Felwinter brings him down one hallway, two, three, then down the spiral staircase, though he suspects its for greatly different reasons.

_Are you sure you’re ready to face what might happen?_ Felspring asks, one last time as they round the corner to where the bunker lies in wait, power supply flickering eerily, _For better or worse?_

**For better or worse** , he says, grimly resigned to whatever Shaxx’s reaction might be—it doesn’t feel _right_ to say nothing anymore, to leave this place with neither goal completed nor connection sustained.

It doesn’t seem worth it.

It’s dark in the cellar, so he summons a little Solar light—more for Shaxx’s benefit than his own--as they approach the control panel that he knows exactly how to use, no matter what he’s shown Shaxx before.

“Have a weapon ready,” he says, low, and Shaxx just nods at him, posture tense as his hand hovers above the gun holstered on his thigh. It’s both a relief and source of nerves that he doesn’t say anything as Felwinter taps out a familiar sequence at the panel and the bunker’s hatch lifts with a hydraulic hiss.

“You’ve known how to do that this whole time,” Shaxx notes, finally, and though his tone is even, not at all accusatory, Felwinter nearly flinches at his voice.

“Yes,” he says, stepping into the low doorway and beckoning Shaxx to follow.

The bunker’s outer hallway lights up as he walks through it first, Shaxx following closely behind. Felwinter pulls his shotgun out, double-checking that it’s loaded, and the Warlord follows his lead. It looks much the same as the other vaults he’s been in—untouched, except by the elements. This one seems in better shape than most, having been under a literal fortress this whole time, but sections of it still rest in a state of disrepair, probably from prolonged lack of use.

They walk down a long, narrow hallway, one that usually leads to where most of the data he scours these things for rests, but as they traverse the walkway, something feels… _off._

It hits him like a knife in the back: they’re being watched.

He holds a hand out behind him, right against the Warlord’s chest plate, stopping Shaxx in his tracks, and a frame drops from the ceiling in front of them.

Felwinter reacts before he even thinks about it, one shotgun shell to the bulkiest part of it and the frame drops to the floor, fluid leaking over his boots. The Rasputin iconography on its chassis gives him a chill, and then more frames crawl out from the sides of the walkway, twitching, lights blinking that all-too-familiar vermillion.

The twisted music of the vault hums into the foreground, and Shaxx curses, firing off five bullets in quick succession before seemingly foregoing the gun entirely, grabbing a frame by it’s head and slamming it into the next closest one.

“You weren’t joking about the weapon!” Shaxx calls over the din of metal against metal and shotgun blasts. He sounds oddly gleeful for somebody fighting—Felwinter does a quick count—fourteen frames hellbent on removing them from the vault.

**Thirteen** , he corrects himself, as Shaxx literally tears one in half. He can’t find it in himself to give it any sympathy.

He counts down steadily, and between his gun, Shaxx’s hands, and their Light, they eventually stand on the path forward, surrounded by bits and pieces of what was once the vault’s defense system.

“There might be more,” he warns, nudging one the limbs off the walkway, and he hears Shaxx shift his weight behind him and a dark chuckle.

“More surprises? You shouldn’t have.”

Felwinter shakes his head, reloading his gun, “We’re not there yet.”

They continue around the twisted walkway for a few minutes longer, and it slopes downward. Felwinter is especially careful here; in one bunker, the walkway had been designed to turn from stairs to a steep ramp that led to a deep pit. He’d managed to float out of it, but not until after Felspring had fixed the damage from the fall.

Shaxx follows him, still quiet, as he goes, and it drives him nearly out of his mind—why isn’t he yelling? Why won’t he confront Felwinter? Is he just waiting until he sees the core to kill him? Will he try to keep Felwinter captive, a living link to the bunker, so that he can access it and its information whenever he so chooses?

_He wouldn’t do that_ , Felspring insists, and he tries to agree with her as he feeds Solar light into his palm to slam open a diamond-shaped door that refuses to open normally.

The door gives way to a larger room, and Felwinter glances around as it reacts to his presence. The consoles lining the walls come online with slowly brightening lights and the core to the vault, a facsimile of Rasputin himself, sits in the center, a separate control panel and holo-interface just waiting for him to access it.

He steps into the room and, when nothing steps out to attack him, he gestures for Shaxx to follow him, approaching the data core.

His voice seems to stick in his mouth, against protocol, and when he finally gets it to work, it’s quieter than he meant, “The other day, you asked me about when I first woke.”

Shaxx nods at him, and Felwinter turns to the interface, turning it on with a flick of his wrist and a few characters typed. The holo-screen glows bright scarlet against his helm, a stark contrast to the dim fluorescence of the rest of the room. The vault’s music cuts off, quick as the flap of a wing, and they’re left with just the buzz of machines coming to life for the first time in centuries.

“I…” he struggles with how to word the damn truth. How is he supposed to say something he’s never said before? “When I woke, the explosion I mentioned,” he tries, and Shaxx comes up next to him to examine the panel, nodding again, “It was a Warsat. And it was no coincidence. It was…aimed at me.”

“Aimed at you?” Shaxx says, finally, and he sounds more confused than anything. Felwinter goes about typing in his ‘credentials’, not that he needs them to make this system do his bidding.

“Yes. I was not...initially meant to be Risen,” he settles on, and the holo-screen scrolls past a mountain of files, pulling up a specific one, one he’s viewed only twice before: once upon discovering it, and once to confirm his suspicious about himself, his origins. “Most Exos—they are at least somewhat human in consciousness.”

The index he’s pulled up reads **SIDDARTHA GOLEM** in bold, uniform letters, and while he has no doubt Shaxx can read it himself, he summarizes, “Before the Collapse, Rasputin helped create an Exo he called this,” he moves a finger underneath the highlighted text, “To go out into the world and learn from humanity, about culture, language, behavior. He, having no human remnant in him, was an anomaly, the first and only of his kind. That Exo was destroyed in the Collapse.”

Shaxx holsters his gun, crossing his arms, expression and tone unreadable, “Go on.”

“That Exo was revived, by a Ghost, many years later. Rasputin didn’t…agree with that,” he feels a shiver lying in wait along his spine, and he taps through the compiled information to shake it off, pulling up blurry pictures of Warsats laying in the remnants of crushed buildings. “He sent a Warsat to destroy the anomaly. The Exo survived, and lived on the run for many years, avoiding other Risen, people, frames, and more Warsats.”

“Felwinter—” Shaxx starts, and Felwinter raises his hand, silencing him, “I am not done.”

Shaxx turns instead to look again at the images and words on the holo-screen, and Felwinter steadies himself, both hands on the main core now, “That Exo, he eventually found a bunker, just like this one. And it turned on for him, despite all other information he’d known telling him they were defunct, inactive. And then, he found others, all laden with information about the Golden Age: weaponry, defense systems, culture...”

He shakes his head, “All of it was useful, yes, but that Exo found himself wanting more, something to _help_ people instead of causing more problems. He kept searching, and one bunker had information about this project, about this ‘Golem’, and he realized—” Felwinter has no organic need to breath, he knows, but he feels his frame heave as if he needs to. Shaxx makes a move to do something, but seems to think better of it, re-crossing his arms.

Felwinter recalls the moment he first realized who, _what_ he is, the dawning horror, the faint wonder. He thinks of carmine against dark grey, about the call of the Void, and about dead Ghosts.

“That Exo realized that the protocol described here was _him,_ ” he says, finally, and his own voice sounds tinny in his ears, “And his Ghost told him to never tell anyone, because it was too powerful of a secret, because it would make his very existence more difficult than it already was.”

The holo-screen flickers, as if in sympathy, and he resists the urge to slam his hand through it. Shaxx studies him for a long moment, then stares at the screen. Felwinter keeps his own gaze straight on the screen, afraid that even through his helmet, Shaxx will see how _terrified_ he is.

“You’re that Exo,” Shaxx murmurs, and something in his tone pulls Felwinter’s eyes to him, magnetic, “It’s _you_.”

“Yes,” he says, and waits for something to happen. A gunshot rattling his frame. A crackling punch aimed for his head. A full body tackle into the nearest wall. Anything. He prepared for this, talked himself into it, and now that he faces the gap between known (himself, the information he just shared, his own strength) and unknown (Shaxx’s thoughts, how far he’s willing to go to prove a point), he finds himself unable to move. If Shaxx meant to kill him, there would be no better opportunity, with him leaning on the console for support, gun set to the side.

The Warlord takes one heavy step forward, then another, and Felwinter shutters his eyes; if this is how he dies for the last time, then it’s pure irony he dies for telling the truth. He doesn’t want to kill Shaxx, not him--

A pair of solid, warm arms settle around him, then he’s being crushed to Shaxx’s chest, and despite his initial alarm and the stream of _danger escape fight run flee_ , there’s no punch, no gun, no show of power through Light. Just Shaxx, taking a deep, slow breath and _holding_ him.

His mind goes haywire, every bit of processing power within him struggling to figure out why this is happening, how he’s not yet dead. He can’t be dead if he’s still thinking. Felspring is oddly quiet, and before he can shake her for answers, Shaxx cups the back of his helm with one hand. He realizes, as if observing his own body from several feet away, that he’s shaking.

Shaxx makes some sort of soft, almost hissing noise, and it takes Felwinter a few seconds to recognize that he’s trying to _soothe_ him, one hand rubbing his back through his robes, the other still resting at his head, holding him to the Warlord’s chest.

“I’ve got you,” Shaxx murmurs, and, against everything he’s ever known looking him right in the face, a faint ember of scarlet in the corner of his eye, Felwinter believes him.

They stand just like that for a few long moments, long enough for Felwinter to really start thinking that Shaxx isn’t going to kill him, before Shaxx sighs, his whole chest moving with it, “I can’t even start to imagine what you’ve gone through, but let’s get out of here, alright?”

“The data first,” Felwinter manages, hoarse, before begrudgingly removing himself from Shaxx’s arms and moving to the nearest console.

The data they extract is a better haul than usual—ancient agricultural techniques, a whole slew of schematics for ships, manuals on Golden Age blade-forging—but the real kicker is the coordinates, tucked away into an unnamed folder, to what Felwinter thinks may be another bunker, luckily also on Earth, not too far from the observatory. Shaxx offers Puck’s help, and he and Felspring suck the drives dry of all their information, sharing particularly interesting bits between themselves.

“This is why I truly came here,” Felwinter admits, watching the transfer happen in real time, “The Iron Lords wanted to know if there was anything useful in the bunker, too, but,” he chances a glance at Shaxx, who is leaning against the console, looking over some of the weapon schematics, “I needed to see what was here with my own eyes.”

“I can see why you hunt them down,” Shaxx replies, turning away from the data to look at him, “Do they all react to your presence like this one did?”

Felwinter offers a one-armed shrug, still feeling a little dazed as he double checks everything is in order, swift fingers tapping at a keypad, “Depends on the location. Some are better guarded than others.”

For a moment, he thinks that’s it, but then Shaxx shifts minutely beside him, rephrasing his question, “Do you always get attacked by frames on your way in?”

“…Usually, yes,” he answers, cutting his link to the console off, certain that they’ve copied all they could. He turns to look Shaxx over, trying to figure out what’s coloring his tone. _Concern_ , Felspring supplies, and that makes him feel…strange, like gathering the fabric of his cloak around himself.

Shaxx’s expression is inscrutable, given his helmet, but he seems to stare at Felwinter before he speaks, “Thank you,” he says, softer than before, “For showing me this.”

Felwinter’s modulator seems to be not functioning as intended once again, so he just nods, disjointed, and turns to leave through the busted door.

When they emerge from the bunker and the hatch slides shut behind them, it’s been dark outside for quite a while. Felwinter turns to go back to his quarters, and Shaxx gently catches him by the arm.

“Come lay with me?” he asks, and while a good third of him recoils at the idea, the other parts of him think of a grounding, solid weight, and he finds himself agreeing.

In what feels like seconds, or maybe hours, he ends up de-armored and somewhat undressed, laying on his side in Shaxx’s bed as the Warlord shuffles around getting rid of his own armor. Soon, the bed moves with his weight as he climbs in next to Felwinter, gently touching his side to let him know he’s coming closer.

Shaxx tugs him back just a tad, and there’s a quick movement in the corner of his eye as the Warlord tugs one of the heavy quilts over them both before wrapping both bare arms around Felwinter’s frame, giving him ample space to move away if he wants to.

“Is this alright?” Shaxx asks, somewhere behind and above him, and Felwinter considers for a moment before rolling over to face him, dimming the lights in his eyes so he doesn’t blind him, then nodding. Shaxx takes this as his cue to tuck Felwinter to his chest, and Felwinter lets him, lets himself be held.

For the first time he can remember, he sleeps willingly, soundly.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes without panic, without pseudo-adrenaline rushing through him. It’s early enough that the corners of Shaxx’s room are still dark. The Warlord himself is tracing slow, idle patterns into the plating of his shoulder blades, and Felwinter has half a mind to pretend he’s still sleeping.

He peeks up to see Shaxx looking at him with such fondness is his eyes that it’s difficult to maintain eye contact. Felwinter ducks his head once again and the Warlord sighs above him.

“Good morning,” Shaxx says, voice raspy from sleep, and Felwinter finds that maybe it is.

They head down to the town after a few hours, late enough that most people will be awake, and much like before, all the people who live there meet them at the center of town. Shaxx details the long journey to the City and the escape routes Felwinter desperately hopes they won’t have to use, but the townspeople seem cheerful, hopeful.

One of the elders presents Felwinter with a flag with the town’s iconography upon it, folded neatly in a box. “A symbol of our gratitude,” they say with a toothy smile, and he accepts it with a nod and a quiet thank-you.

Shaxx links his arm through Felwinter’s on the way out of town, going on about what he’s heard of the City being built under the Traveler, and Felwinter denies the wild rumors he’s fairly sure Shaxx is bringing up in an attempt to make him laugh.

That night, he holds onto Shaxx’s shoulders so tightly as they shake apart together that he’s positive there will be bruises there in the morning, unless Puck deigns to heal him.

A small, dark part of him hopes he doesn’t, that Shaxx will savor them as long as he can.

* * *

“Will you miss me?” Shaxx asks him as they stand atop the ramparts, watching the banners of the Iron Lords approach from one side and the collective regalia of the Warlords from the other. Felwinter feels oddly calm, all things considered, though perhaps a bit sad.

“Perhaps,” he tilts his head to the side, reaching down to pat where Shaxx’s gift to him sits on his thigh, “I have a reminder. Will _you_ miss _me_?”

“Of course.” Shaxx’s answer is instant, hand moving to rest atop Felwinter’s on the stone wall for just a moment, and he swears he feels the slightest spark of Arc between them. “But,” he says, drawing back, “We won’t be apart for long. I’ll be coming to the peak to contribute to the construction effort after I make sure the people get settled in the City.”

“Not just to visit me?” Felwinter asks, mostly joking, and Shaxx chuckles, a low rumble of thunder next to him.

“Maybe the next time it’ll be just to see you.”

* * *

It’s harder than he thought it would, walking away from Shaxx’s castle.

Saladin and Efrideet had jokingly asked who won, and for a moment Felwinter had forgotten they were supposed to be fighting.

“Shaxx,” he settled on, clasping the Warlord’s shoulder one last time before turning away, willing himself to move, “Shaxx won.”

As they move behind the safety of the banner line, Efrideet lets out a low whistle, “Geez, you look like you’ve been on vacation all season while the rest of us were out busting our asses. Got everything you came here looking for?”

“Yes,” he answers, and Saladin snorts at his brevity, as if he has any room to talk. He was surprisingly verbose today, talking to Shaxx about the plans to safely relocate all the townsfolk to the growing City.

Felwinter looks over his shoulder as they crest the hill, and he can still see a horned helm atop a dark fur at the south wall of the castle.

When Efrideet smothers a laugh in her hand and starts going on about all he’s missed back at the Temple, he turns back around, feeling warm.

* * *

Shaxx’s foreword notice of his visit comes about two weeks after Felwinter’s return, on neat, crisp parchment, written much neater than the first correspondence they’d received from him.

“He’ll be here in three days’ time, given the weather doesn’t hold him up,” Skorri reads from the parchment, and her eyes flick over to Felwinter with worrying glee, “And there’s a smaller note just for you, Felwinter.”

He takes it (mercifully unopened) from her, quickly, and despite the multiple suggestions to open it and read it aloud (and the whistles he gets from where Jolder sits further down), he retreats from the hall to his room to read it.

The words upon it are familiar, but the presentation is cleaner, more polished.

_You are the sun, awash in the glory of dawn,_

_You who catches the stars in the crest of your helm,_

_You who wields the might of those stars in your blade,_

_And I am Icarus, the fool, who dares give chase_

_To the danger of getting scorched, incinerated_

_In order to catch just a taste of your Light, your voice_

_Whatever I dare hope to be gifted, and this chase,_

_This ebb and flow of ours, I will follow it_

_Follow you, until our paths meet again._

The very bottom of the note reads, simply, in much messier script:

_Missing you. Three days away. See you soon. -S_

Felspring crows at him in equal parts delight and I-told-you-so, and he bats her away despite the blooming warmth in his own chest.

* * *

“…Alright, then. We’ll meet here again two days from now. Meeting adjourned. Now, Efrideet, about that mess at the bar—”

As soon as Radeghast turns his stern gaze away from the center of the war table, Felwinter is on his feet and tugging Shaxx out of the nearest exit.

“Hold on,” Shaxx chuckles at him as Felwinter all but drags him past the sparring grounds, “Where’s the fire?”

“Over there,” Felwinter replies, dry, pointing at one of the fire pits as they pass it. Gheleon nods at them from beside the flames, which is about as bright a greeting as one can expect from him.

Felwinter nods in return, and Shaxx gives a little one-handed wave as Felwinter urges them onwards, up the stairs leading to the observatory.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Shaxx says, but his tone is light, “Say, how did…Gheleon, was it? How did he get outside so quickly after the meeting?”

“I certainly don’t know, he’s always been like that,” Felwinter shakes his head, inputting the code that grants them entrance to the top of the observatory. He hesitates just a moment, hand resting on the door handle, recalling Felspring’s teasing from earlier.

_You’ve never really had a visitor before. Wonder how he’ll react to seeing what it’s like here. Might want to clean up a bit._

He’d balked at the idea, at first, but he _did_ end up tidying what little mess there was on his work desk before Shaxx’s arrival. It had mostly been because of his restless hands, restless feet—like he couldn’t quite sit still the whole day before. It had given him something to do besides think of all the things that could (and by accounts, would) go wrong.

Perhaps Shaxx had realized pursuing Felwinter was a mistake. Perhaps he found the very idea of him repulsive now that he’d had time to let his…unusual circumstances sit in his mind. Perhaps he’d come, only to leave the way he came after seeing Felwinter again.

None of those things had happened, of course. So far, at least.

Shaxx had walked across the last bridge towards the gathered Iron Lords, some more eager than others to see this infamous Warlord they’d been locked in stalemate with for a few decades. Felwinter counted himself amongst the former as Radeghast stepped forward to formally welcome him to the grounds of the Iron Temple, home of the Iron Lords, keepers of peace. Shaxx listened rather patiently before jovially, boldly reaching out to clap Radeghast’s plated shoulder, “I’m guessing you saw my letter.”

That had startled a rare, quiet laugh from the commander, and as he started ushering Shaxx towards the meeting room, Shaxx cast a look over his shoulder in Felwinter’s direction as he stood with the higher-ranking Iron Lords, off to the side.

Things had moved quickly after that, the key players in the upcoming construction efforts present for a meeting that only took perhaps two hours but felt like a full day. They’d ended up seated next to each other, something that distracted Felwinter more than he’d like to admit. Despite several of the Iron Lords removing their helmets before sitting, Shaxx had kept his firmly on, and nobody had questioned him about it, especially not with Felwinter’s helm also still on his head.

And now, they stand in the light snow in the middle of the afternoon at the door to Felwinter’s personal quarters with Felwinter experiencing heavy doubt for the first time since Shaxx’s arrival.

The Warlord must notice, because there’s a warm presence on his shoulder, Shaxx’s hand over his cloak. There’s just a hint of tease in his voice, “Are you going to invite me in?”

That pushes him forward, and he opens the door and steps through, tugging Shaxx in with him.

Felwinter finally releases his hold on Shaxx to get his cloak off, hanging it on the hook by the door, reaching for Shaxx’s helmet before the Warlord has the chance to do much but look about.

“Take this off,” he insists, and Shaxx snorts at him, reaching around him to find the release for Felwinter’s own helm.

There’s something about seeing Shaxx’s face that calms the doubts that have been dogging his heels since he arrived back at the peak, with all the scarring and softness around his eyes. He supposes he should be wary that he’s already devoting so much emotional function to a man who has removed his head and limbs from his body several times before, but the way Shaxx smiles at him and cradles his jaw in one hand like he’s precious makes any thoughts of wariness drift away.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, light and low, and it feels like the coolant that runs through him moves faster when Shaxx runs a thumb over what would be his cheekbone, “Missed you.”

“Did you now?” Felwinter asks, and Shaxx nods, without shame or hesitation. Something about it throws him off—how can he so readily admit and agree to such a query?

“I’m happy to show you just how much I missed you,” Shaxx murmurs, quite effectively stopping that train of thought in its tracks when his hands find Felwinter’s waist for just a moment, “But perhaps you’d like to show me around first?” He glances about Felwinter’s room like it’s some sort of closely held secret.

Now that he thinks about it, perhaps it is. It’s not like anyone tries to come up here except occasionally Timur, and he’s always driven off eventually with enough threats. Felwinter keeps his quarters quite neat except for his desk, finding it hard to focus otherwise, so most of the few personal effects he has line the walls and built-in shelves of the circular room. The flag from the townsfolk is hung on one section of wall, and the shelves are lined with books, spare weapon parts, and a few candles. There are a few knives hung from dedicated hooks on the far wall, away from the bed that Felspring insisted he install, despite his rebuttal that it was not needed (it still doesn’t get used much). The center of the room is mostly occupied by the large telescope that only sometimes works, and against another wall is a table that holds a pretty hefty chunk of a Warsat, the lights that line it long dimmed from when he’d picked it clean. There’s even an ancient music player in the corner that he hasn’t been touched since the Iron Lords moved in, covered in dust.

Shaxx takes a small step around him, sweeping off his own traveling cloak and tucking it over his arm as he moves around the space, heading straight for the flag. “I’m sure they’ll be pleased to hear you’ve already found a place for this,” Shaxx remarks, stooping slightly to run his fingers over the fabric, “Some of the children ask after you, still.”

“Do they?” he replies, doubtful, reaching to take Shaxx’s cloak from him, hanging it next to his own. The sight smacks of domesticity and he forces himself to turn back around.

Shaxx makes a thoughtful noise, looking over some of the things he’s scavenged from old research facilities, “They do, after you and your ‘fire tricks’. Where did you happen upon this?” He gestures to a carton of ammunition marked ‘EXPERIMENTAL’ in bold capitals.

“I made it,” he answers, and surprise flashes across Shaxx’s face, “Following directions I found in one of those vaults.” It makes him…nervous, he supposes, to bring up the bunkers again. There hadn’t even been a full day between their trip down to the one in Shaxx’s castle and Felwinter’s following departure. He’s positive Shaxx has more questions that he hasn’t asked yet. He knows _he_ would have questions.

He still does, really.

“What does it do?” Shaxx asks, picking up one shell to examine it more closely.

“It explodes,” Felwinter says, muffling a chuckle when Shaxx swiftly puts the shell back where it came from, “Don’t fret, it only explodes when you remotely trigger it using Void Light.”

“Hm. Especially useful at extended range, I bet. Or for an ambush,” Shaxx murmurs, half to himself, it seems. He moves onto the next thing that catches his eye, asking Felwinter about its origins, too, and instead of feeling like his privacy is being intruded on, Felwinter feels…light. Maybe even close to content. Shaxx’s questions are genuine, curious; he’s asking questions because he wants to hear Felwinter’s thoughts, nothing more. The flame of anticipation that had been burning in his core dims to an ember, and when Shaxx runs out of things to ask about in his room, he asks Felwinter about how it is to live here, what working with the Iron Lords is like. Felwinter asks, in turn, how the town is doing, how preparations for the move to the City are going, what Shaxx plans on doing there.

“Building, hopefully,” is Shaxx’s response to the last question, sitting next to Felwinter on his bed, playing idly with his fingers, “Going to need homes for all those people. After that, I don’t know yet. I’m sure there will be something.”

“There is always something to fight,” Felwinter notes, wry, and Shaxx nudges him with his shoulder, snorting.

“There are things I can do besides fight, Winter,” the Warlord says, squeezing his hand before letting go of it, hand settling closer to his thigh.

The ember in him lights up again, and though he has no need to swallow, he feels an urge. “I’m aware,” he replies, glancing from Shaxx’s hand on his leg to his face, “I read your poetry.”

“Not quite what I meant,” the Warlord chuckles, and Felwinter lets himself be maneuvered onto his back with Shaxx looming over him. “Did you enjoy it?” Shaxx asks, fingers already plucking at the clasps of Felwinter’s long coat.

“I did,” Felwinter answers, winding his arms around Shaxx’s neck and tugging him downwards. Shaxx acquiesces immediately, and it sends a thrill of delight through his fingertips. “I especially liked the part about you chasing me,” he supplies, and Shaxx’s grin goes from soft to sharp in a millisecond.

“Right, of course,” he says, and his Ghost appears in a flash to transmat his armor off. Felwinter quickly asks Felspring to do the same before Shaxx ducks his head close to his own, “I was going to show you how much I missed you, wasn’t I?”

Somehow, they manage to make it down to dinner later at Shaxx’s suggestion. Felwinter sees Saladin hand Efrideet a bag of what he assumes is Glimmer and resists the urge to comment; Saladin has never been known for his subtlety, nor his fortune in gambling. His curiosity remains, however, about the topic of their latest bet. Perhaps he’ll ask Efrideet about it later.

Shaxx immediately strikes up a conversation with Skorri, who is more than happy to start asking Shaxx all about his ‘very exciting Warlord life’. Felwinter finds himself listening as everyone but the two of them eats, happy to not be in the spotlight that Shaxx seems quite at home occupying, and he’s…somewhat comfortable, for once, with the Warlord’s helmed presence next to him.

Or at least he is until Timur slides into the empty chair next to him, scooting much closer than he needs to.

“Having fun playing tour guide?” the other Warlock asks, low enough that Shaxx doesn’t hear him on his other side, and while Felwinter tolerates Timur on a good day, something in his tone rubs him the wrong way right off the bat. When Felwinter turns to examine his expression, Timur’s smirking at him, which in itself isn’t uncommon. Somehow, though, it seems colder than usual.

“I don’t know if I’d call it that,” Felwinter replies, tapping his fingers on the table’s edge to relieve some of the tension that inches its way up his spine, “But I suppose so.”

The motion catches Timur’s sharp eyes immediately, and the other Iron Lord’s eyes flick from his fingers to Shaxx’s form over Felwinter’s shoulder, then back to Felwinter’s helm. The little smirk remains glued in place, even as he reaches for a fork, brushing Felwinter’s arm unnecessarily, “ _He_ certainly seems to be having fun, at least. Strange fellow.” Timur chews thoughtfully on some bread, glancing at Felwinter out of the corner of his eye, “Kinda sucks that you of all people got put up to the task of showing him around, huh?”

Felwinter feels himself tensing up further, and he lowers his hands to his lap, smoothing over the folds of his coat to keep his finger occupied. Shaxx laughs at something on his left, and Felwinter tries to keep his mounting irritation with the person on his right at bay, keeping his posture and voice as even as possible. “What do you mean?” he asks, already dreading the words that will follow.

“I mean,” Timur shrugs with one arm, aiming for nonchalance, drinking from a cup held in the other, “There’re loads of other, _more important_ things you’d rather be focusing on, right? Somebody else could’ve been in charge of him.”

The irritation shoots straight through him and into his words at that, “I volunteered to do it, if you must know. You would’ve known that already, had you been present for that meeting.”

Across the table, Gheleon looks up from his already empty plate, dark eyes shifting between them with a hint of wariness. Timur laughs it off, like he always does, and he brings his hand up to Felwinter’s shoulder, “You know why I wasn’t at that one. I was chasing a lead; you know the one. Right, Fel?”

Felwinter shrugs his hand off, trying to move away from the fool without knocking into Shaxx, hissing, “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that—”

“Ah, Timur, was it?” Shaxx asks from behind him, and Timur’s hand pauses midair in its trajectory towards Felwinter’s arm as Shaxx reaches across Felwinter to offer his hand, “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced yet.”

“Warlord Shaxx,” Timur says, airily, with particular focus on his title, as he takes Shaxx’s hand and shakes it, “We haven’t. Enjoying our little mountaintop home?”

“It’s been lovely. Mostly,” Shaxx replies, though he hasn’t let go of Timur’s hand yet. Felwinter leans back a little, spine rigid with the uncomfortable weight of at least three pairs of eyes on them. “Felwinter here has been an exceptional guide.”

“Has he now?” Timur’s eyes gleam with something that could be best described as insidious interest, “Usually he keeps almost entirely to himself, cooped up in his quarters until something that piques his interest pops up.” The other Warlock tries to take his hand back, but Shaxx’s larger hand remains closed around it, and Timur’s near-permanent smirk gains a hard edge, “That, or I personally come to drag him out.”

Most of the table has stopped trying to pretend they’re not watching this unfold by this point. Skorri smacks Efrideet’s arm, and Jolder is openly staring, eyes darting between the three of them. Even Radeghast looks up from his datapad with muted interest. Felwinter wishes very much that he could just teleport back to his quarters, but blinking that far would surely have adverse effects—

“Ah, I see,” Shaxx replies, tone all cordial and benign, and from the way his helm is tilted, Felwinter can tell he’s not looking at Timur, but at _him_ , “Well, he’s been nothing short of gracious to me.” Shaxx releases his hold on Timur’s hand with one last firm shake, withdrawing and standing, “It was good to meet you all. Now, I wanted to see the forges before retiring tonight. Do you mind showing me the way, Felwinter?”

Felwinter stands as soon as Shaxx asks, watching Timur shake out his hand from the corner of his eye, and he’s never been more grateful for an out, “Right, of course. This way.”

“You,” Felwinter says, about ten minutes later, “Are quite devious.”

Shaxx chuckles against his neck, tucked snug to his side, one leg slung over Felwinter’s own as they lay in his bed, “I hope that’s a compliment.”

Felwinter _had_ tried to lead Shaxx to the forges, as asked, but Shaxx had steered him back towards his quarters quite hastily, as if sensing that Felwinter didn’t want to be anywhere else. They’d settled on the bed together, and though the action made him expect _things_ , Shaxx had just pulled him close with soft touches, nothing more.

They lay quietly together for a moment, and when Shaxx speaks again, his tone is more serious, more hushed, “Does he always talk to you like that?”

Felwinter doesn’t need a name to know who he’s talking about, and he fabricates a sigh, “Yes. Timur has always been like that. Curious to the point of obsession. If he can’t figure something out, it’s only a matter of time until he does. I suppose I’m one of those fixations.”

Shaxx makes a scornful little noise, drawing Felwinter in closer, still leaving him plenty of room to move, “That’s no excuse for talking to you in such a way. Or trying to touch you when you clearly don’t want to be touched.”

Felwinter shakes his head as well as he can, “It’s not important.”

“It _is_ ,” Shaxx insists, drawing back a little so he can look Felwinter right in the eyes. His eyebrows are drawn with what Felwinter is starting to recognize as concern, and Felwinter dims his eyes so there’s not red light shining directly onto Shaxx’ face. “You are both Iron Lords, yes? Is mutual respect not something valued here?”

“I doubt he ‘respects’ anyone,” Felwinter suppresses a snort, dropping his gaze to somewhere near Shaxx’s clavicle, “He’s cooperative if someone has something he wants, usually information.”

“I don’t like it,” Shaxx says, with a sense of finality that make Felwinter think that this isn’t something he’s going to let go of.

Two days later, Shaxx gets pulled aside by Radeghast after a meeting to discuss something to do with guiding more refugees to the City, and Felwinter ducks out to head to the library, content to have a moment to himself and confident that Shaxx can easily find him after he’s done.

He settles into his favorite chair by the window with a book Shaxx brought with him, some ancient classic with a weathered cover featuring a human woman in a ruffled dress. Someone plops into the chair nearest him and he tries to focus on the words on the page, written in truly archaic English, but something—or rather, someone—nudges his foot.

He levels a glare over the top of the book at none other than Timur, who is perched on the arm of the chair across from him looking quite like the cat that caught the canary.

“Oh, hello Fel,” he says, false cheer coloring his tone, “Fancy finding you here! And by yourself for once, no less!”

“Lord Timur,” Felwinter grits out, “Stop calling me that. What is it you require? As you can see, I am trying to read.”

Timur _tsks_ at him, leaning forward from his perch, peering at the cover of his book, “So formal, really! What’s this you’re reading? Haven’t seen this one on the shelves before.”

Felwinter actively leans back, closing the book and setting it in his lap, beneath his hands, “It’s part of my personal collection, so no, you haven’t. What do you want.”

Timur seems to deflate a little, settling in the chair like a reasonable person, steepling his fingers, “Radeghast wants to have a little combat tournament to show off for our guest a little, apparently, since he seems to like fighting so much. He’s thinking the day before he leaves, for a proper send-off. So far, it looks like singles, doubles, and maybe a few skill shows because you _know_ Efrideet will take any chance she can get to show off her hawk eye--”

“I fail to see what this has to do with me and my reading,” Felwinter cuts him off, though the information is new to him. It’s not often the Iron Lords get visitors who don’t end up joining, and Shaxx has already confirmed he has no plans to enlist, so he supposes a little show of strength isn’t too far-fetched…

“Well,” Timur grins behind his fingers, “I was thinking, me and you, we could team up for the doubles! I know Jolder and Perun are going to sign up, for sure. It could be fun!”

Frankly, going against either of them sounds terrifying and most definitely _not_ fun, especially with someone as unpredictable as Timur on his ‘side’. This invitation feels more like an attempt to ‘study’ Felwinter’ combat up close and personal, or perhaps something else unpleasant.

“No,” he says, moving to stand when Timur makes a noise of protest, “No, and do not ask me again. Perhaps Gheleon will be willing to put up with you if you want to fight the two of them so badly.”

Felwinter starts walking briskly out of the library, but he stops short when Timur says, oh-so-nonchalant, “Hm, I figured it might be a good way for you to show off for your _paramour_ , but ah, well.”

Felwinter keeps his feet moving, not bothering to dignify that brazen attempt to get into his head with a response. Still, it puts a flicker of fury through him as he exits the room.

He nearly runs face-first into Shaxx’s chest not a dozen irate steps later, as eager as he is to leave the space. Shaxx centers him with a hand on each of his arms, “Ah, I was just looking for you. What happened to meeting in the library?”

“Change of plans,” Felwinter replies, sounding much smoother than his ragged mind feels as he ushers Shaxx out into the snow.

The Warlord follows without complaint, all the way out to the sparring grounds. Nobody’s out here at this time of day except a few Iron Wolves, tucked all the way in the back by the targets. Felwinter and Shaxx shuffle past them, through freshly fallen snow as more continues to fall around them. Still, somehow, Felwinter feels overly warm, too warm, as if his anger, his very Light is trying to burst out of him.

“Need to clear your head?” asks Shaxx as they settle across from one another on the furthest marked field, cloaks taken away by their Ghosts in favor of mobility. There’s already Arc sparking from his fingers and excitement in his posture.

“Something like that,” Felwinter says, summoning his Light into his own hands, cool Void combating the heat that threatens to burst out of him.

“Oh, this will be _fun,_ ” Shaxx shouts, and then he’s storming towards him, all unbridled energy.

* * *

The day of the tournament arrives, and Felwinter can hardly get his students to focus on the rifts they’re supposed to practicing with all the excited muttering going on. He gives them a light scolding, and all their spines straighten up, so he feels gracious enough to let them leave early. The Warlocks of the Iron Wolves leave the room with a flutter of cloaks and robes and then it’s just him in the room, already nursing a potential headache at what he’s going to witness.

“They’ll ask me to challenge someone in a one-on-one,” Shaxx had said to him a few days ago, standing beside Felwinter as they examined the bustle of the forges, for real this time, “Apparently, it’s a bit of tradition.”

Felwinter had nodded minutely, and Shaxx had continued, “I think they expect me to challenge you.”

He’d turned to him fully, then, studying the ever-present horned helmet, “Will you?”

“No,” Shaxx had shaken his head, crossing his arms, “I already know how you fight, and you I. It’d be close—and enjoyable to watch, I’m sure—but I’m not planning on it.”

A hint of sardonic relief had colored Felwinter’s next words, “I’m sure everyone would enjoy watching you make a fool of me, yes.” Shaxx had snorted at that, then turned to observe the forge and its workers once more.

Curiosity had gotten the better of Felwinter, though, and he’d eventually asked, “If not me, then do you have somebody in mind already? Perhaps Saladin? Jolder? Perhaps even Radeghast himself? That would make quite a show.”

Shaxx had shaken his head, even granted him a chortle, “There’s no stakes in any of those bouts, just a show match. From what little I’ve seen, all of us fight too similarly, and while normally I’d jump at the chance to fight any of them,” his posture had gone for tense for a second, “If I get one pick, it’s going to be Timur.”

Felwinter had done an honest double-take at that, “Pardon?”

“I’ll be challenging Timur,” Shaxx said, tone light, gamesome even, “It’ll be interesting to witness, I bet.”

A thousand questions whirled about him, but the only one Felwinter managed to snag from his thoughts and put voice to was: “Why?”

“We’re both most acclimated to Arc, but use it very differently, for starters,” Shaxx replied, thoughtful, “He fights like he’s playing with the mind of his opponent and I,” the Warlord had knocked the side of his helmet with his knuckles, twice, for emphasis, “Well, I try not to think too much. Simple but effective is best for a singles bout; the mind games should be saved for a full-scale assault.”

“Why _him_?” Felwinter tried to clarify, still reeling in vague fear, thinking specifically of Timur’s favorite little pendant, “There are several other Warlocks among us, why choose him of all people?”

Shaxx had sighed at that, tapping his fingers against one of his gauntlets, “I…may want to prove a point.”

Feeling much like a sleuth from one of the books he’d borrowed from the Warlord’s collection, Felwinter narrowed his eyes at him, “A point? What kind of point?”

“It’s—” the tapping of Shaxx’s fingers became faster, and he shifted his weight, words rushing out in a sigh, “It’s not _right_ , how he acts towards you, as if you’re some sort of…object, something to be examined and not some _one,_ someone with thoughts and feelings.” The Warlord had faced him again, chancing the barest brush of their fingers, “I may be challenging him to get him to…back off.”

A swell of anger had risen in him, unbidden, and he’d snapped, “I can take care of myself,” and taken a step back, then immediately admonished himself for reacting so impulsively. Shaxx, to his credit, had just raised his hands in a semblance of peacekeeping as Felwinter collected himself.

“You don’t have to do that,” Felwinter had said, once he’d reigned in his vexation, and Shaxx had stepped back into his space carefully, “He has been…helpful, occasionally. He may be an annoyance sometimes, but it’s nothing I can’t deal with myself.”

“You misunderstand me,” Shaxx insisted, voice low, with another hint of that same finality, “I’m not fighting for your honor, really. I’m fighting him because the way he treats you pisses me off, and I want him to stop.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Felwinter had eventually said, after watching the fire, the bellows, and the weapons for a long moment, “But you should be warned, he wears this talisman—”

“And he focuses through it to try to use people’s minds against them,” Shaxx had finished, and Felwinter had allowed himself a second of admiration, “Don’t worry too much, I looked into things before I made my choice.”

And now, here he stands in the empty meditation chamber, rubbing his head like it will do anything to alleviate the pressure building inside his metal skull. Felspring sighs at him, _Quit stressing yourself out over this. What’s the worst that could happen?_

**Many things. Someone could die** , he responds over the link, and she snorts derisively at him.

Eventually, he finds himself seated with the other Iron Lords around the sparring grounds, watching as Efrideet nails target after target, blindfolded. Shaxx sits a few rows ahead, next to Radeghast, and he applauds with visible delight. Felwinter’s gut—or where his gut would be—churns as Radeghast stands to clap Efrideet on the shoulder and walks to the middle of the ring to address the crowd.

“Time for singles bouts. No weapons, no seconds needed, fight ‘til first knockout. Guest gets first pick, then it’s based on sign-ups. Warlord Shaxx?”

Shaxx steps forward when called, to a smattering of light applause, and Radeghast turns to ask him, “Who do you challenge?”

“Iron Lord Timur,” Shaxx’s voice booms right across the gathering without hesitance, and there’s immediately murmuring among them. Felwinter picks up on confusion, speckled with excitement and perhaps a bit of indignation.

Timur sidles out from the crowd, and he’s wearing his helmet already. _He knew there was a possibility, then_ , Felspring notes, _That he’d be called on_.

Timur says something to Shaxx as they shake hands that seems to make him tense up, and Felwinter’s dread flares from low to moderate in an instant as they walk to opposite sides of the field. Radeghast counts them off and the crowd reacts visibly to the first contact: Shaxx hits Timur in the gut with a lightning-charged fist. The Warlock swings his momentum around, guarding his injured side and going for a crackling leg sweep, but Shaxx grabs his leg out of the air and swings it down. Felwinter winces in something that’s not quite sympathy at the solid crack of shattered bone that echoes across the field.

It seems already like it’s over, Timur knocked askew on the ground and Shaxx advancing on him, but Felwinter catches movement from his seat, Timur reaching for his damn talisman as he struggles to right himself, other arm reaching out in Shaxx’s direction. Shaxx’s steps halt immediately and Felwinter quickly stands, something close to the panic he usually reserves for being surrounded by enemies swelling within him.

Shaxx stands not even two feet away from Timur as Timur’s Ghost quickly knits things back together so he can at least stand, still clutching at the little pendant, twisting his other hand. Shaxx comes closer, fists unclenched, and Felwinter has to physically restrain himself from rushing out onto the field, a building chant of **no, nonono** _—_ building in his head.

Then Shaxx laughs, all bright and unbothered, knuckles knocking the side of his helmet in a gesture Felwinter recalls from the other day, “Did you really think that was going to work?”

Timur gapes up at him, then, in an instant, the Warlord backhands him right across the face, sending him several feet back and reeling. Felwinter stands on his toes, peering over the crowd as they all gasp, watching Shaxx pick the Warlock’s prone form right off the ground and toss him by the leg, overhand, off the peak.

There’s a charged silence before there’s a loud shout of encouragement from further along, Jolder, he thinks, and the rest of the crowd _raves_. Radeghast has to shout to get them to quiet down as Timur’s Ghost reconstructs his body at the far end of the field. Shaxx stands at least a head over most of the crowd, and he seems to scan helms and faces before he lands on Felwinter, tilting his head slightly and raising his arms, as if to say _Did you see that?_

Timur staggers back to the center and Radeghast has them shake hands once more before Timur darts off to wherever he goes to nurse his pride, and Shaxx settles back in the place of honor on Radeghast’s right side.

Felwinter doesn’t pay much attention after that, eyes glued to the back of Shaxx’s helm as the Warlord partakes in the spectacle being made in his honor. The rest of the singles bouts go by in the blink of an eye, and then the doubles start. Jolder and Perun make quick work of two other teams, one comprised of two Iron Wolves who seem rather cowed by their defeat.

“Really? Nobody else dares to challenge us?” Perun shouts, her vicious victory smile still firmly in place, helmet tucked under her arm. Most of the other inhabitants of the mountain know better than to, at this point; Jolder and Perun are nearly undefeated in doubles.

“Warlord Shaxx!” calls Jolder, striding closer to the audience, “You’ve already proven yourself in combat once today, how about once more?”

Shaxx chuckles and rises to clap her shoulder, “You two are impressive, I’m not sure I could handle both of you at once.” Felwinter feels apprehension curl in his frame again, even though he knows neither Jolder nor Perun to be as…unpredictable as Timur.

“Not to worry,” Perun calls, sauntering over to stand by her partner, gesturing to the audience at large, “I’m sure you can pick a suitable partner from our ranks. And I’ll even promise to go easy on you.”

“I won’t make the same promise,” Jolder nudges her with her hip, grinning sharply at Shaxx.

For a moment, Felwinter thinks the Warlord might refuse, but then he turns, facing the crowd, making a show of thinking his options through.

Felwinter considers the same.

Saladin, perhaps? He’s seen the two of them sparring once or twice. Maybe even Radeghast would agree, if asked, to shed some of his pomp and circumstance. Similar seems to be an obvious out since he avoids combat drills as a rule of thumb. Tactically, anyways, it makes more sense to take a Hunter, or even a Warlock. Skorri is practically vibrating in her seat next to him, and while Gheleon is hard to read in general, he’s not slouching like he usually is when seated. Efrideet looks on casually, but her illusion of nonchalance is broken by the way she taps her foot, and there’s no way Shaxx would ask Timur, who is sinking so low in his chair that he might as well be Gheleon.

Jolder and Perun watch, too, eyes flicking from face to face, probably weighing the options and plans. Perun mutters something to Jolder, and the Titan’s face lights up with mischief.

“Iron Lord Felwinter,” Shaxx says, and it takes Felwinter a beat longer than he’d like to realize Shaxx isn’t just calling to him, he’s calling him _forward_. There’s more of that inane muttering, and the crowd parts for Felwinter to walk through. It’s not exactly a common occurrence, for him to participate in these tournaments. His reputation for…efficiency proceeds him, and most of the Lords had lost to him at least once. Few of the Wolves are brave or foolish enough to name him for their challenges, and those who do are quickly shown the error of their ways. Nobody has asked him to be their doubles partner, either, and that had sat just fine with him.

Shaxx, however, seems elated to see him up close, muttering a quiet “Thank you,” before Radeghast addresses the four of them, “Is this acceptable to you all, these teams?”

Perun and Jolder both nod eagerly, and Shaxx and Felwinter follow their lead, with varied levels of enthusiasm. As soon as Radeghast sends them to the field, Felwinter starts strategizing aloud, having considered on the way over, “They have the advantage, they’ve been working together for decades now, but it’s entirely possible to win. I need you to keep Jolder busy. She knows how I fight too well, so she’ll automatically go for you first, more fun for her that way. Just keep her attention off me and Perun, and as soon as I get within striking distance of Perun, she’ll go for me instead. That’s when we switch. If I can catch Jolder off guard I can handle her, and with luck Perun will have predicted that, so—”

“You’re fantastic,” Shaxx says, nearly reverent, and it startles a huff of laughter out of him, “Please, continue.”

“If Perun predicts the same outcome, she’ll try to keep her distance. She’ll also be keeping track of our Light levels to find the best time to knock us both out in one go. Jolder is relentless and fast, but not particularly tricky. Perun is the real tough one to track. She’ll be using Solar knives against us, probably guessing that I’ll be using Solar against them, as well, but I’m using Void. They already know you prefer Arc, so just play to your strengths. It is likely they will target me first, and highly likely that I will be knocked out. Keep fighting, regardless.” Felwinter takes a deep breath he doesn’t necessarily need, “That’s everything. It’s possible.”

“Amazing,” Shaxx says, sounding strangely breathless himself, then, nodding, “Understood.”

Radeghast calls the ready, and they exchange another nod. Perun and Jolder taunt them from the other side of the field, and as soon as Radeghast steps out of the way and drops his hand, Jolder rushes them in a streak of gold. Shaxx meets her halfway, stopping her advance with his considerable bulk and a crackle of Light as Felwinter narrows in on Perun. The Hunter dashes away, keeping him in her periphery, as expected, and slinging fiery knives over her shoulder at him in succession that he intercepts with bursts of Light from his own hands.

“Jolder!” Perun calls, and Felwinter hears her coming for him before he sees her, Shaxx chasing behind her.

“Now!” Felwinter calls, and he sees Shaxx dart around Jolder, charging straight at Perun. Felwinter himself turns sharply and blinks through Shaxx’s form, reappearing in just the right spot to smash into Jolder’s head with his knee. He follows through with the movement, slamming a palm full of Void into the weakest point of her recently polished chest plate as they crash to the ground. A wayward blazing knife soars just past his head and Jolder shouts beneath him.

“Little busy!” Perun calls back, and he hears Shaxx laugh as something _crunches_ behind him unpleasantly.

Jolder curses and tries to throw him off, but he rolls with her, lighting up pressure points in her arms and legs with suppressive Void as they grapple. When he’s fairly certain she’s not moving much any time soon, he scrambles off of her, turning to see Perun struggling against Shaxx’s grasp as he seemingly attempts to separate her from one of her limbs. He can practically see her mind working overtime as he speeds towards them, and he’d rather end it quickly than let her scheme.

“Shaxx, move!” he shouts, charging his whole body with Void energy, and Shaxx, thankfully, slides out of the way as he blinks towards them, reappearing just past Perun in an explosion of supernova incarnate. Perun shrieks as the Void devours her, and Felwinter skids to a halt at the edge of the field.

“Felwinter!” Shaxx shouts, and that’s all the warning he gets before he gets absolutely flattened by a furious Titan in gold and white plate.

When the world stops spinning, Shaxx has seemingly punched Jolder into submission—the air still smells of ozone—and Shaxx is helping him to his feet. Everything _hurts_ and things are still a little wobbly, so he shakily draws a rift into the icy dirt as Shaxx supports most of his weight, the pinch in his back and knees lessening as the Light seeps into him.

“You are a force of nature,” Shaxx says, in awe, gradually letting him handle his own weight now that his knees aren’t buckling.

“I could say the same of you,” Felwinter replies, still a bit hazy, and then Radeghast is waving them over.

Perun and Jolder join them once their Ghosts have gotten them fixed up, sporting matching grins.

“Using my own move against me, Felwinter?” Jolder asks, shaking her head, “Dirty trick. It won’t save you next time.”

Before he can question the ‘next time’ bit, Perun chimes in, beaming up at Shaxx, “See? We went easy on you! So, don’t expect me to promise that again. And yes, there _will_ be a next time.”

“Looking forward to it,” Shaxx chuckles, and Radeghast claps heartily for them all.

“Well done. These two haven’t had real competition in ages,” he says, gesturing to the Hunter-Titan duo, then to Shaxx and Felwinter, “ _You_ two make a surprisingly efficient combination. Have you fought together before?”

“Not together, per say,” Shaxx shakes his head, and Felwinter has to suppress a snort.

They get ushered back to their seats, but instead of taking his place up front, Shaxx follows Felwinter back to his own seat, and Skorri gives them a knowing look before rising to make her way up front, instead, muttering something about changing the lyrics of her song again. The Warlord presses his whole side against Felwinter, and he feels something like an itch start building under his plating.

Later, Felwinter sits on the edge of his bed as Shaxx kneels before him, pressing languid kisses from his calf all the way up to his inner thigh, letting Felwinter’s other leg rest on his shoulder.

“Truly magnificent,” the Warlord utters, pressing a kiss to the back of his knee, right against the sensor tucked there that Shaxx _knows_ lights up his entire feedback board. “The way you blinked right through me?” The hand on his thigh grips harder, “Oh, the explosion near the end, utterly amazing.”

Felwinter leans back on his elbows, gazing down at Shaxx with his own appreciation, “Kind words from the man who nearly dismembered the slipperiest Hunter I know and punched our most veteran champion into submission.”

He can feel Shaxx smile against his thigh, then the Warlord is rising to meet him as he sits up and leans down, guiding Shaxx to him with a hand on his jaw.

“Truth be told, as soon as you started strategizing, I wanted you,” Shaxx says, against his mouth, and the honesty, the genuine pull to his words hits Felwinter like the hit he must’ve landed on Jolder.

That ‘itch’ from earlier returns full force, lining his limbs as he asks, “Is that so?”

Shaxx nods, huffing out a laugh as Felwinter cups his jaw in one hand, “How could I not? What I wouldn’t give for you to take me apart with the same precision you use against your enemies…”

Felwinter regards him for a moment, Shaxx’s eyes darting hungrily across his own face as he curls his fingers around the back of Shaxx’s neck, “That can be arranged.”

* * *

By the time next winter arrives, it’s a well-known secret among the inhabitants of Felwinter Peak that the mountain’s namesake and the well-respected Warlord Shaxx are most definitely _involved._ Felwinter, well-accustomed to rumors about him, ignores these with the grace of someone who knows nobody will address him about it directly. Shaxx deflects as best as he can, but he’s become quite popular during his visits to the grounds of the Iron Lords. Saladin has taken him on as a student of sorts, honing Shaxx’s instinct with the sharp edge of strategy, and Felwinter has taken on a single apprentice of his own, a promising Solar user named Osiris who asks all the right questions and all the wrong ones, as well.

Another young Warlock by the name of Nirwen comes to pull answers from him upon occasion, as well, though technically both younger Risen are students of both him and Timur. They never teach together, however—after his thorough defeat during the combat tournament, Timur has steered fairly clear of Felwinter, minus a few lingering glances and a twitch of his fingers every now and then, only speaking to him when their research requires it. Since then, Felwinter has gradually stopped feeling the need to look over his shoulder more than once or so a day as Timur seems to bury himself in his obsessive ongoing search for anything related to Clovis Bray.

Felwinter is more than happy to hunt bunkers by himself, now.

When Shaxx comes to visit the peak, he’s often crowded by people wanting to hear all about the City steadily growing in the glow of the Traveler’s Light, and he brings stories aplenty—about the walls they’re building, the fledgling combat drill system he calls the Crucible, and the people who seem to arrive every day from every direction, pulled in by hope and faith and the promise of protection from the Fallen and vicious Warlords.

With the way he glues himself to Felwinter’s side every time he arrives, it’s a wonder the rumors didn’t start sooner. It’s nothing too obvious or too affectionate, but with how Felwinter brushes off contact from literally anyone else, Shaxx’s close presence had earned Felwinter a fair bit of ribbing from other Iron Lords (namely Skorri).

Osiris clears his throat, seated across from him in the little nook tucked away in the back corner of the library where they usually meet, and Felwinter blinks back into the present, diverting all his processing away from meditation and reading, giving his student his full attention. Osiris always has something to say, but sometimes his deeper questions—about the nature of Light, about the limits of their power--take time for even him to parse, so he waits.

“Will you be going down to the City for the Dawning festivities next week?” Osiris asks, fiddling with the pages of the tome he has open in his lap, and it’s not quite the topic Felwinter was prepared for.

He steeples his fingers over his own book, considering, “I was not planning on it, no. It’s not often I find myself in the City.”

Osiris nods, like he’d already imagined Felwinter’s answer, and knowing him, he probably has. He’s got an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what will happen, or what someone will say. It’s not quite the same as his own over-analytical mind, or Perun’s heightened instinct, something strange and interesting in its own right, something he’s encouraged Osiris to hone.

“I may go, to see what it’s like, for…research,” Osiris murmurs, already turning his attention back to the tome, and Felwinter does the same, thinking that will be the end of him hearing of it.

The next morning, Skorri hands him a note at the morning meeting with a wink and a knowing smile, “From your favorite Warlord.” It’s true, if only by default—Felwinter knows what the nastier rumors say about him, about him being an oath breaker, about how he deals with unruly Warlords, sometimes even Iron Lords. Often, they hold more truth than the benign ones.

Shaxx’s note has no poetry, this time, just an invitation written in his usual scrawl.

_Felwinter,_

_Hope things are going well on the peak. City’s been busier than usual with all the preparations going on for the Dawning. Won’t you join me for the lantern lighting next week? I know you’re not fond of the crowds, but I swear I’ll make it worth your while._

The hastily written note goes on to note a time and place to meet, ‘the usual spot’ being near where Shaxx has set up shop for his Crucible.

“Damn him,” he mutters, under his breath, and Efrideet gives him a sidelong glance from next to him but thankfully doesn’t pry.

Shaxx ‘invites’ him to the City, knowing full well he usually detests being around so many people, and knowing full well he’ll come, anyway, because Shaxx asked.

_Going soft?_ Felspring teases him, and he grumbles in response. _You should probably get him a gift, you know he’ll have one for you,_ she tacks on, and he sighs as Radeghast brings the meeting to order.

A week later finds him rounding the corner, heading towards the building-in-progress that houses Shaxx’s operation. He’s in a bit of a flinty mood, having been jostled around quite a bit as he went through the main checkpoint leading into the City, but something about seeing Shaxx visibly brighten and move swiftly towards him as soon as he spots Felwinter coming makes it seem at least a little worthwhile.

“Winter,” Shaxx greets him, wrapping both arms around him as soon as he’s within range, pressing the front of his helm to the top of Felwinter’s, just briefly, as close to a kiss hello as they can get in public, “I’m glad you came.”

Felwinter lets himself decompress a little, safely surrounded as he is. “Hello to you, too,” he replies, after a moment of carefully reciprocating the embrace. It’s still…new, to him, to exchange affection like this. He’s never felt pressured to, with Shaxx, but it’s an adjustment he’s consciously making, regardless.

He doesn’t make Shaxx wait for long, mostly because he can tell he’s restless by the way his hands won’t sit still, “Now, what did you have me come all the way out here for? Something about lanterns?”

“I can’t invite you here just to spend time with me?” Shaxx asks, and Felwinter can almost see the exaggerated downturn of his lips before Shaxx chuckles, reaching for Felwinter’s hand, “Yes, the lanterns. Let’s get up to the top of that big building over there.”

They don’t quite race there, but there’s a hint of competition in who can get there in the flashiest way possible. Felwinter blinks up several stories at a time until he’s scaled one of the smaller buildings, flickering across the remaining rooftops to get there. He can see and hear Shaxx throwing himself off patios and scaffolding until he’s dashing alongside him, a lick of Arc kicking at his heels.

Felwinter alights upon the rooftop first, violet particles dissipating where his boots hit the flat roofing. He turns around to watch Shaxx’s approach, and instead nearly gets bowled over as Shaxx comes hurtling at him.

“Sorry,” Shaxx chuckles just past the horns of Felwinter’s helm, and when he makes a questioning noise in response, Shaxx just shakes his head and holds him by the shoulders, “Just excited to see you, that’s all. Come, sit.”

Felwinter peeks around Shaxx’s shoulder, and there’s a little table and a pair of chairs set up there, just past where they’d landed, complete with a bottle of something rather lavish-looking and a pair of glasses.

“How did you manage to get this up here?” Felwinter asks, and when Shaxx reaches for his hand and leads him over to the setup, he lets himself be led.

“I had some help,” Shaxx concedes, pulling out his chair for him. Felwinter sits, shakes his head at him, and—after a good look around to confirm no one else is nearby—he reaches up to take his helm off, setting it on the table.

When he fixes Shaxx with a _look_ , the Titan ducks his head to remove his own helmet, setting it beside Felwinter’s and sitting across from him, voice clearer without the muffling, “What? It’s not every day that the famous Lord Felwinter deigns to grace the City with his presence.”

“ _Iron_ Lord Felwinter,” he corrects him, though they both know it’s in jest, “Still. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” comes the easy response, Shaxx reaching across the table for his hand so he can run a thumb over Felwinter’s gloved knuckles, “Lanterns should be released soon, want something to take the edge off?”

Felwinter eyes the bottle with perhaps the slightest bit of trepidation, “It’s not the same type as last time, is it?”

“No, no,” Shaxx chuckles, letting go of Felwinter’s hand to show him the bottle more clearly, “I remember. This is a little stronger, recommended for those of us who want something a little harder.”

He remembers, too. The minimal effect the liquor had on him compared to the opposite effect on Shaxx was…interesting to say the least.

Shaxx pours them both a bit of the sweet-smelling stuff and they catch up as the drink warms them. Felwinter asks about the Wall’s progress and Shaxx beams, gesturing to the most recent portion in the distance with pride. Shaxx asks about his students, and Felwinter tells him all about their latest projects. “Osiris still can’t manage to summon a rift wider than a plate, though,” he muses, and Shaxx lights up with brilliant laughter.

There’s movement in the corner of his eye, and the only thing that keeps him from jumping up and trying to shoot it is Shaxx’s hand over his and his low rumble of, “Oh, look, they’re starting.”

Felwinter turns his head to look properly, and there’s dozens of colored paper lanterns rising gently between the buildings. Many lights flicker off from the windows and doors around them until they’re sitting in the glow of just the lanterns and the Traveler.

“Oh, isn’t that just the loveliest sight,” Shaxx sighs next to him, and when Felwinter looks at him, his response gets stuck in his throat. The soft colors of the lights shimmer across his face, kaleidoscopic, as he watches, unrestrained wonder in the lines of his face. His eyes flick to Felwinter’s, and he realizes he’s waiting for a response.

“Yes,” he settles on, curling his fingers through Shaxx’s on the table, “It is.”

Later, after all the lanterns have drifted up past the Traveler’s massive shell and out of sight, they get their helmets back on and Shaxx leads him through a night market. While it’s more populated than he’d like, Shaxx always keeps a hand on him, his presence a reassuring weight as they peruse the stalls. Felwinter spots a few of his colleagues here and there. Perun speaks excitedly with a group of other Hunters, all of them clutching steaming mugs. Gheleon perches up high, leaning against a railing and gazing out at the City. He spots Osiris crossing his arms, seemingly debating with anther scholar. He hears Skorri more than he sees her, singing what he believes is the newest version of her Iron Song.

“Hold on,” Shaxx brings them to a gentle stop, tilting his head, “Was that a line about _us_ she just sang?”

“Absolutely not,” Felwinter replies, tugging Shaxx in the opposite direction, away from her iconic iambic pentameter.

_He’ll hear the full song eventually,_ Felspring pipes up, teasing, _I think it’s sweet that she included a little homage to your ‘partnership’._

Ignoring her, he lets Shaxx take point again once he’s sure the Titan won’t try to lead them back towards the singing. They pass people Shaxx seems to know, too. Another Titan with peppered hair and a steady presence smiles and waves at them, and the stern-looking Awoken man next to her nods, as well.

“Sloane and Zavala,” Shaxx supplies as they resume their walk, and the names resonate with what Shaxx has told him about his work in the City, “They’re helping with the Wall, as well.”

As they move past a booth selling tomes, Felwinter swears he feels eyes on them, but when he turns to look, nobody seems to be paying them any mind. Shaxx wraps an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards a stall covered in tiny little lights, and he thinks less of it.

Eventually, they make their way back to Shaxx’s residence, a bit out of the way, and Felwinter’s shoulders untense away from all the people. Shaxx pauses just at the door, peeking over his shoulder at Felwinter, “Will you come inside?”

“Of course,” Felwinter replies, his arm still hooked with Shaxx’s, “I didn’t come all this way to spend the night outside.”

Shaxx rumbles out a laugh, but it sounds…nervous, somehow. Felwinter lets Shaxx pull him through the doorway, and he reaches for the release on Shaxx’s helmet as soon as Shaxx reaches for his. Shaxx’s lips are on the seam of his mouth before he can do much but hold onto him as the Titan leads them further into his apartment, taking small, matched steps.

“Missed you,” Shaxx sighs against his cheek, ducking his head as he nudges open the door to his quarters.

“I’ve been with you all evening,” Felwinter murmurs back, already seeking the latches and clasps for Shaxx’s armor.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he gets a snort in return, and Shaxx takes a step back so Puck can do the work for them, transmatting all of his armor away, along with the furs. He’s taken to wearing more armor, now; plating that covers more of his joints and the broad expanse of his chest.

“What _do_ you mean, then?” Felwinter asks, even as Felspring takes away his cloak and armor, too.

Shaxx guides him over to the bed—not nearly as opulent as his bed back at the castle, but still plenty large—and pushes him to sit with a gentle hand on each shoulder. “I’ll show you what I mean,” he promises, stooping to kiss him again before turning to rummage through the chest next to the bed, “But first, I have something for you.”

Felwinter forces his hands to stay steady on the bed, dismissing the urge to immediately reach for the little wrapped package tucked into the pocket of his coat, “And I have something for you.”

“Oh? Really?” Shaxx turns back to him, clutching a little box in one hand, face full of glee, “Alright, then. Can I go first?”

Felwinter can’t find it in him to say no, so he nods, and Shaxx presents him with the gift, coming to rest next to him on the bed, crowding close. When he opens it, Shaxx’ words rush out, “I saw it in a merchant’s stock and I knew it had to be yours, it’s meant to be an ornament for your gun.”

On the little cushion inside the back is a little charm, maybe two or so inches long, of a stylized sun, the little flame points on it flashing a light bronze when he moves it to look at it more closely. “It’s stunning,” Felwinter says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, caught on the meaning of the thing, the sentimentality. It’s hard for him to tear his eyes from the charm in his palm, even when Shaxx asks, tentative, “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he says, finally turning his head to look at Shaxx, who’s sitting there with the tiniest little smile and holding some orange cord he didn’t have a few seconds ago.

“Mind if I do the honors?” he asks, and it takes a moment for Felwinter to catch his meaning before he has Felspring transmat his shotgun into his lap. When Shaxx reaches to take it, Felwinter stills him with a hand on his forearm, “Wait, we can do it together.”

“What do you mean?” Shaxx asks, confusion flashing openly across his features, and Felwinter simply offers him the little package he’d tucked away.

Shaxx’s whole body lights up with surprise, then delight when he fishes the little thing out of its wrapping: a small trinket in silver, made to look like a pair of wings spread in flight.

“Oh…how did you know what I was getting you?” Shaxx murmurs, turning it this way and that, carefully tracing the feathered edge, and Felwinter can’t help but smile at the sight.

“I didn’t,” he answers, truthful, as he reaches for the length of red cord he’d brought with him, “What is it they say…’great minds think alike’?”

“Something like that,” Shaxx says, unholstering his hand cannon. They exchange weapons and cords, both grinning like fools, winding their respective charms onto one another’s prized weapons.

“Still don’t understand how you use this so efficiently,” Shaxx murmurs, almost reverent, as he works, “It’s got quite a heft to it, let alone the kick.”

“I’m just used to it,” Felwinter replies, eyeing his handiwork on Shaxx’s gun, scarlet cord wrapped safe and snug around the nonmoving parts, the little charm hanging well within sight.

When he slides his gaze over to Shaxx’s hands, he’s just finishing up, bright orange standing out easily among mottled green and dulled gold, the tiny sun looking right at home.

The guns are returned to their owners, and then promptly put away, Shaxx reaching for Felwinter as soon as his gun disappears.

“Happy Dawning,” he says against Felwinter’s jaw, hands coming to rest at the back of his head and his waist, “Supposedly, it’s good luck to kiss someone at midnight.”

Felwinter hums in response, going willingly when Shaxx reels him in, “We have time for you to show me how much you missed me, then.” He pauses, brushing light fingertips over the gouge in Shaxx’s cheek. The Titan’s eyes flutter closed at his touch, and Felwinter adds on, “And how much I missed you.”

* * *

The sun beats down on his back as he collects himself, the pounding in his head receding to a dull throb. Felspring scans him again, sagging with exhaustion, and he heaves himself up off the ground using his gun for support, joints only protesting moderately.

“Where...?” he rasps out, and Felspring shakes her spines at him, her relief palpable, “We won, don’t worry. Nice work on that Captain.”

Felwinter shakes his head at her, standing upright and keeping his gun ready just in case, “Where is he?”

“Who? The Captain? Over there, dead. You killed him. Oh—” she sighs, almost fond, “Right. He’s just over the hill. Just got a ping from Puck.”

Felwinter turns, and sure enough, a familiar horned helmet rises over the crest of the hill, and Felwinter heads towards him immediately, not caring about the looks he draws from other defenders around.

“You’re safe,” Shaxx says, hoarse, as he pulls Felwinter into a crushing embrace, and Felwinter returns it without hesitation.

“Shouldn’t you be at the debriefing with the other commanders?” Felwinter asks, like he’s not clinging to Shaxx with everything he has, relief and pseudo-adrenaline fighting their own battle within him, “Saladin will have your head.”

“Had to see you,” Shaxx says, sounding quite like he’s been shouting the whole battle. Knowing him, he probably has. “Discussions and showboating can happen later. I’m safe, and you’re safe.”

“I’m safe,” Felwinter says, pressing the side of his head to Shaxx’s chest plate, “I’m safe.”

* * *

They’re laying together in Felwinter’s bed, Shaxx tracing lazily patterns into his back when Felwinter tells him about the promising lead he and Timur found.

“It’s the strongest evidence we’ve found yet that SIVA truly exists, that we could use it to help the City,” he says, his own hand pressed to Shaxx’s chest, right over his heart, “Felspring thinks it’s a trap, but…”

“It most certainly is a trap,” Shaxx rumbles, fingers pausing for a moment, “But I understand. From what you’ve told me, this technology—it could revolutionize _everything_. You’ll have to bring me back a sample so I can try some new things with the armory.”

Felwinter pokes him right below his ribcage, where he knows he’s ticklish, “Don’t. It could change everything, yes, but we have to get to it first.”

“And you think Rasputin is guarding it,” Shaxx notes, and Felwinter suppresses a shiver, “You’re going to try to talk to him? In front of all the others?”

Felwinter shutters his eyes, envisioning the possibilities, “…Yes. The rewards outweigh the risks. If they decide I’m a traitor, something dangerous, it will be worth it, to help the people. And,” he soothes over where he’d poked, careful, apologetic, “I know you wouldn’t let them do anything unsavory without a fight.”

“Of course,” Shaxx’s hand moves up and he brushes his thumb over Felwinter’s arm before reaching up to cup his face, pressing their foreheads together, “What did Osiris call me the other day? Your ‘knight in shining armor’?”

Felwinter allows himself a chuckle, “Something like that. I think his promotion will do him good. Let him enjoy the weight of authority and paperwork.”

Shaxx laughs at that, kissing Felwinter’s brow before sighing, more somber, “You better come back in one piece. I’ll miss you.” Then, quieter, like a secret, “I love you.”

Felwinter soaks in that for moment, trying to let Shaxx’s warmth overwhelm the all-too-familiar dread that churns in his core. It’s not an easy sentiment for him to offer in return, still, and he’s not ever said the words aloud, but when he tilts his head to press the seam of his mouth to Shaxx’s collar, he knows Shaxx understands.

* * *

It’s loud, too loud. And yet, too quiet, much too quiet. Red, everywhere—blood, waves of SIVA, the flickering lights that tell him Rasputin is here, watching, and doing nothing to stop this.

“Stop this!” he shouts, for what feels like the thousandth time, ragged, over the beeping timer set on the explosives attached to the main console where SIVA’s origin is housed, “Why are you doing this?!”

He gets no response, just the suffocating, loud silence of a sealed chamber full of creeping nanomachines, fallen Iron Lords, and dead Ghosts. The plague had taken each one of the other Risen, one at a time, as if toying with him, forcing him to watch each one meet their own unholy demise.

“You did this,” he gasps, staggering as one of the tendrils makes a grab for his leg. He shoots it away immediately, lurching towards the console and clenching his jaw, “You did this, you led us here on purpose, to kill all of us. Is that it? Why? _Why_?!”

When all he gets in reply is silence and the scarlet screen flickering as if mocking him, he turns his back to the console and Felspring whimpers, _It’s over, Felwinter. He’s going to kill us._

“Call him,” he says, watching the tendrils creep over closer and counting his remaining ammo: not enough, “Call him, please.” _I’ll try_ , Felspring whispers, _Comms might still be jammed._

“Felwinter?” Shaxx’s voice comes in grainy as he gets miraculously patched through, “Everything alright?”

“Shaxx,” Felwinter rushes, trying to tamp down the shake in his voice as Felspring tries her hardest to stabilize the stream, “Shaxx, I need to tell you something.”

“Felwinter—” there’s a noise in the background, presumably Shaxx stepping away from his Crucible post, “Winter, what’s wrong? What’s going on out there—”

“Shaxx, please,” and the Titan goes quiet. Felwinter clutches at his gun, fires a shot, then another, and still the red creeps ever closer. He darts around the console, unable to mask the panic in his voice, “Shaxx, I love you. I’m sorry I never said it, but I love you.”

Then, the line goes dead.

Felspring outright sobs and he loads the last four rounds he has into his gun, clutching at the sun charm wrapped around it for just a moment before unloading into the red mass that swells before him. As it sinks, more tendrils reach for his frame from the wall behind him, and he staggers forward with their weight, summoning what little Light he has left to form a blazing sword in his hand, cutting a path through it.

“You did this,” he roars, “Never forget you did this.”

As he finally gets overwhelmed by creeping, insidious red and the world goes dark, he’s not sure who he’s blaming anymore, Rasputin or himself.

* * *

“So it’s true,” Shaxx rasps, and Saladin tries not to wince at his tone—Shaxx sounds like shit, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, “They’re all dead.”

“Official reports will say MIA, but,” Saladin trudges up the remaining steps to the temple, “Yes.”

Shaxx stands behind him in the snow, fists clenching and unclenching, and Saladin finds himself lacking the words his former student must need to hear, “I’m…I’m sorry, Shaxx. He thought—”

“Don’t,” Shaxx cuts him off, fists settling at his sides, his mark whipping around in the wind, “Don’t talk to me about…about _him_.” There’s a heavy, grief-filled breath, “I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve _prevented_ this—”

“You are _one man_ , Shaxx!” Saladin shouts at him, pointing at him sternly, “Don’t be a fool! That…that _thing_ wiped out _everyone_. Every last Iron Lord and Iron Wolf, except me. There were things in the Plaguelands none of us had ever seen before, and you think _you_ could’ve stopped it? Why? Does your arrogance know no bounds?”

Shaxx leans forward, fury making his Light spark around him, but then his whole frame droops, like the air’s been punched out of him, “I can’t tell you.”

“What?” Saladin growls, and then he’s marching right into Shaxx’s space, grabbing him by the fur, “What do you know?”

“I said I can’t tell you,” Shaxx repeats, ragged, shoving Saladin back and away from him, then turning away to head back across the snowy bridge.

“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?” Saladin shouts after him, “Shaxx! I want answers!”

“Back to the City,” Shaxx calls back, but now his voice is stony, cold, “There’s nothing for me here, anymore. And nothing for you, either.”

Saladin watches his back disappear into the snow and feels colder than he’s ever felt before. The doors to the Iron Temple close silently, firmly behind him.

* * *

“Lord Shaxx? Sir?” Arcite brings his attention back to the present. There’s a Guardian standing in front of him, expectantly, one who just performed quite admirably in the Crucible—went on a twenty-kill streak, practically carried their team. It’s truly unfortunate, really, that Shaxx couldn’t pay attention the whole match because of the damn _helmet_.

He’s not sure where they sprung up from, these replica horned Warlock helmets, but every time he spots one atop a Guardian’s head, it feels like the universe is mocking him. Perhaps it’s Felwinter haunting him, in his own peculiar way.

The Guardian before him presently—certainly not a long-dead Iron Lord--shifts from foot to foot, clearly unnerved by Shaxx’s silence, waiting for their reward.

“Terribly sorry. Lost in thought,” he says, reaching for one of the reward weapons behind him, “Good work out there, but even steel needs sharpening…”

Later, Arcite stands next to him, polishing the next round of rewards to perfection as Shaxx reviews footage, and the Warlock from before shows up on the screen, even wielding a shotgun. He must stiffen or sigh or _something_ without quite realizing it, because Arcite pauses in his task, turning to ask, “Everything alright, sir?”

“Just fine,” Shaxx assures him, skipping to the next match.

* * *

“Wonderful work, as always,” Shaxx nods to arguably his favorite Guardian, clapping his hands together, “It’s good to know you still take time to sharpen your skills. And you even brought a friend along this time!”

The Young Wolf shifts in what Shaxx vaguely recognizes as unease, he and his Ghost exchanging a _look_. The newcomer is even wearing one of those damn Felwinter replica helms. Shaxx peers at the ‘friend’ in question, “Actually, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my Crucible before. Quite impressive, then, to do so well on your first go-around.” He motions to their helmet, “You must be a big fan of the Iron Lords. Strong to the very end, all of them.”

Now the newcomer turns to look at the Young Wolf, and the two of them seem to have some sort of jerky, pantomimed conversation Shaxx doesn’t even try to follow—he’s used to the Hero of the Red War’s antics by now. Instead, he examines the shotgun slung across the newcomer’s back—four-barreled, marked with an Iron insignia. He’s seen a couple close quarters-focused Guardians use similar replica weapons in the Crucible, but he hasn’t had a chance to ask where all of them are getting ‘Felwinter’s Lie’ imitations from. Perhaps Saladin has started making reproductions as Iron Banner rewards, sentimental bastard that he is. The thought of having to see more of them gives him a chill.

A shine across the stationary bit of the gun catches his eye, though, something all the other replicas he’s seen lack. It feels like the busy mid-afternoon Tower slows to a stop, even the exposed bits of the reawakened Traveler grinding to a halt.

There, tied to the mottled metal of the shotgun with faded orange cord is a miniature bronze sun.

“You—” he tries, words catching in his throat, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the gun and the attached charm, “Where did you get that gun?”

The newcomer’s whole frame stiffens, fingers twitching at their sides, a gesture he recognizes immediately, desperately. The Young Wolf’s eyes go wide, and he starts trying to explain, “Well, my Ghost and I did a little lunar spelunking and found a really old Seraph bunker, completely untouched. Rasputin told us a little story and then—voila—gave us the gun.” He starts fussing with the edge of his robes when Shaxx shifts, crossing his arms, “And, er, my friend here, he needed a little help getting started around here, so I’m lending him it!”

“Right,” Shaxx says, knowing immediately whatever he’s hearing isn’t the full truth, “Guardian, you may want to leave the lying to other people. It doesn’t suit you.”

He opens his mouth to try to retort, but the newcomer raises a hand, sounding rather tired, “Enough, Guardian.”

Shaxx knows that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere.

The other Warlock turns to face him again, unslinging the massive gun from his back, seemingly choosing his words carefully, “I _made_ this gun. It has always belonged to me.”

Shaxx swallows, chancing a single, tiny step forwards as the Warlock holds his gun in his hands so Shaxx can see the little charm strung to it. Then, he replaces it, looking right at Shaxx through his barred helm. Shaxx can hardly breathe, nearly suffocated by disbelief, by desperation, by _hope_.

“…Winter?”

And the world starts moving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't believe we've made it all the way here. This is officially the longest complete work I've ever written, and this last chapter is over 20k words of me fleshing out these characters and this relationship. It's incredibly self indulgent, but I've been in enough academia to never want to write something NOT self indulgent ever again.  
> Thank you to everyone who's talked to me about this fic/Felwinter in general, whether through twitter or discord: y'all make my day EVERY day. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but it's a real refreshing departure from most interaction I've had on the internet.  
> I have so many ideas, even still, which is why I'm very excited to say this is the first work in a SERIES!! I'm hoping to start working on a direct sequel to this more open ending soon, after a nice little break. I'm also hoping to occasionally post little in-betweens and missing scenes from both works as a separate collection of one-shots and drabbles.  
> Thank you so, so much for reading this, commenting, leaving kudos--I'm honestly really proud of this work, and every one of you has made it all the more worthwhile.  
> If you'd like to keep up with what's next, feel free to follow me on twitter @maxcapacitygo !!


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